


Broken

by Liathwen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Werewolf AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-14 09:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 35,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1260805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liathwen/pseuds/Liathwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper is a brilliant but poor medical student. When she is offered a mysterious job, she never thinks that she'll end up as the assistant to the enigmatic and elusive detective, Sherlock Holmes. As Molly investigates gruesome crimes and reports back to her employer, she finds herself sinking deeper into a world she never knew existed and falling for a man she never even considered a friend, setting in motion a chain of events that could destroy everything she holds dear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Interview with the Unknown

“What do you know of Sherlock Holmes, Miss Hooper?”

Molly Hooper’s brow furrowed and she chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. Her chocolate brown eyes were lowered to her hands, where she busily chipped off the nail polish she had painted on for exactly that reason. In the past, she had bitten her nails, a nervous habit, and had finally taught herself to chip off her polish instead.

“I, I don’t understand sir?”

“What. Do. You. Know. Of. Sherlock. Holmes?” Each word was a sentence of its own and she looked up at the man who asked, her face apprehensive. “I’d appreciate it if you would simply answer me, Miss Hooper, no questions asked.”

For not the first time, Molly wondered exactly what the hell she had gotten herself into. This job interview felt more like an interrogation from the cold man in front of her. She wracked her brain for information.

“Umm, he’s brilliant, right? Used to help Scotland Yard with solving crimes.” She shook her head. “But he disappeared a few years ago, didn’t he? The papers said he just shut himself up in his home one day and never came back out.”

The scarily serious man across from her smiled a reptilian smile which sent shivers down her spine. Molly just wanted to escape the man’s gaze, it seemed like he was looking straight through her. Examining her. He sat back, rubbing a finger across his lips as he scrutinized her through narrowed eyes.

“Would you like to meet him?”

She sputtered. “What?”

He sighed the most long suffering, exasperated sigh she had ever heard, and leaned forward, pinning her with his glare. “Miss Hooper, I don’t care how intelligent you are, if you wish for Sherlock to put up with you for more than one day, you are going to have to be able to speak a full sentence without tripping all over yourself.”

Molly bristled, straightening in her chair. “Excuse me, Mr… whatever your name is, but whether I can put together a sentence is irrelevant. I’m top of my class, and have plenty of hands on experience in the medical field. I don’t know what exactly it is that you want from me, but if it has anything to do with that, I can assure you that you will find no one more qualified than I am.” She nodded her head curtly at the end, trying to seem more confident than she felt. Her insides were squirming with nerves but she kept her face untouched by her inner turmoil.

Molly Hooper was strong. Years of hiding her emotions had left her with the uncanny ability to take whatever abuse that came her way with a completely indifferent demeanor. At the age of 23, she was described as timid and shy by some. By others, she was labelled cold, unfeeling and calculating. Her reluctance to show her true self resulted in alienation from her classmates at the university where she was indisputably the most brilliant and dedicated student studying medicine. In a few short years, she hoped to have her degree in forensic pathology.

And she would, if she could come up with the money for classes.

Though undeniably smart, Molly Hooper had trouble getting the money she needed for school. All the scholarships were designated for certain groups of people and unfortunately, Molly didn’t fit the bill.

In truth, she would not have had any problems, had she not suddenly become an orphan a few years prior under mysterious circumstances. In the time since then, she had been as frugal as possible, trying to make her meager inheritance last through school but not even her brilliant mind could make the money stretch any further.

That is how she found herself going through this ridiculous excuse for a job interview.

One of her professors, the one who had taken the shy, aspiring pathologist under his wing, had called her to his office one day and informed her that one of his oldest friends was looking for someone who had an intimate knowledge of bodies for a job. He had recommended her, knowing that she needed the money.

Molly’s eyes had bugged when he told her that all her school expenses would be paid, she would be given a place to live with paid utilities and an allowance for whatever expenses she might have. When she hesitantly asked what her duties would be, her professor had replied with a shrug.

“Whatever it is, it won’t be conventional,” he replied. “But I can promise you it won’t be boring either.”

He had winked at her and given her a paper with a date, time and address on it. Which is where she was at that precise moment.

Staring down an impassive man dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit.

Molly shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, her façade breaking a little as she regretted her clothing choice for the umpteenth time since she’d set foot in the room. She was dressed in her normal clothes, which not only were several years old, due to lack of funds, but also horribly old-maid-like. Molly freely admitted than she had no fashion sense whatsoever and since she planned to spend the rest of her life with the company of the dead ( _ooo it sounds horrible when I put it that way_ ) she didn’t put any effort into learning how to dress herself.

After a moment, he wore her down completely and she began chewing on her lip and running her fingers though the ends of her long, brown ponytail. She smoothed the wrinkles out of her plain, sage green trousers and played with the lacy ends of her sleeves as her interrogator continued to stare at her.

He huffed, his decision made, and Molly prepared herself to hear him say that he appreciated her coming but that he wouldn’t be needing her. To her surprise, what came out of his mouth was quite different.

“I like you, Miss Hooper. I believe you will be able to handle my brother quite well indeed.”

She gasped slightly, shocked at his pronouncement.

He stood and handed her an envelope.

“There is an advance. You’ll start tomorrow. There will be a car around to pick you up from your place of residence at precisely six o’clock in the evening. You do not have classes tomorrow so I suggest you spend the day packing up your essentials and preparing to move. Also, you might want to use some of that money to acquire a new wardrobe. Something more suitable for your new position.”

She gazed at him, incredulously. “Ummm, sir? What exactly is my new position? You never told me what I’ll be doing.”

“Oh, I thought it was obvious. You’ll be assistant to the only consulting detective in the world.” He marked the title with air quotes and a sarcastic tone. “You will examine crime scenes and bodies then report back to my brother.”

Molly gasped in earnest this time as she put two and two together.

She’d heard whispers of Mycroft Holmes. The most powerful man in England. And she’d been speaking to him for the last hour without even knowing it. She mentally berated herself.

_Now you’ve done it, Molly. You’re royally screwed now._

“What about my classes, sir?”

“You’ll be given time off for your classes, though your schedule will change. I have arranged for you to have private classes each morning.”

She stared at him, speechless, until a sudden thought came to her.

“You already made arrangements…”

“Yes, Miss Hooper, I was already sure of you before you walked in the door.”

“You could’ve spared me the agony,” she muttered under her breath and thought she caught a slight smile from him as he stood and strode past her to the door, opening it and effectively dismissing her.

As she passed by him, he called to the woman sitting at the desk outside his office. “Anthea, take tomorrow morning out of the office and procure some suitable clothing for Miss Hooper.” He gave Molly a cold smile. “I doubt you would know what to do with your money, so use it to buy things for your new home instead. Your clothing will be waiting for you when you arrive at your new place.”

“Where will I be living?” she asked, cocking her head to the side in inquiry.

“221B Baker Street.”


	2. House Guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks tons to Lisa, for letting me bounce ideas off of her and to Diana/Pulpbomb for the edits!

Molly’s head whirled.

She sat in the middle of her sitting room floor, music blasting in the background, surrounded by boxes where, just 24 hours before, she was completely unaware that her life would be changing so drastically.

She had most of her meager possessions packed already and it was only 2 pm. She packed up the majority of her clothes, against the orders of Anthea, who had been by early in the morning to take her measurements. The woman took one look in Molly’s closet and told her to throw out everything and proceeded to take Molly’s bra size as well. After her exit, Molly had defiantly boxed up most of her clothes, throwing out only what was unserviceable. She reasoned that she could wear her normal clothes while at home and her new ones when her services were required.

The bulk of her boxes were filled with hundreds of books. Molly loved to read; it was instilled in her by her parents, both literature professors. They differed on what type of books though, her mother firmly on the side of the classics, ( _The Iliad, Bleak House, Pride and Prejudice, Ivanhoe_ ) whereas her father preferred more recent literature, ( _Of Mice and Men, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Grapes of Wrath_ ). Molly fell squarely in the middle, owning large amounts of both types. Whenever she had any extra money, which was rare, she spent it on books. Though now, they were mostly medical books or textbooks for her classes.

She sighed.

Anthea had delivered a missive from Mycroft Holmes during her visit that morning, which gave instructions for Molly to leave all her furniture and kitchen things. They would be placed into storage until such time as her services were no longer needed. She was informed that a bed and dresser would be waiting for her and that she could use some of her advance to buy anything else she wished. It seemed a bit odd that not a mention of living room furniture was made but she shrugged it off. She wasn’t going to turn down new furniture, not when hers had so many holes and stains.

So really, Molly only had a small amount of belongings for Mycroft’s men to move to her new flat.

She wondered what it would look like. She hoped it had some character, unlike the man who had interviewed her. She wasn’t sure if she could live in a place that was as cold and clinical as he was. Though, his office, with its dark wood paneling and leather chairs, seemed out of sync with his personality so Molly had some optimism.

A loud knock on the door startled her from her thoughts and she jumped quickly to her foot. She turned down the volume and checked the clock before opening the door to let the men come inside and collect her boxes. She chewed her lip, watching them, before getting up the courage to hand her spare key to one of the men and tell him that he should lock up when they had finished, that she needed to pop out and get a few things. He merely nodded, taking the key from her and continued about his business, so Molly slipped out to purchase a few last minute items.

\----------------------------------

Molly wandered aimlessly about the store, not sure what to buy. She had plenty of funds in her bank account, thanks to the check she had received from Mr. Holmes the day before, but years of ingrained frugality preyed on her conscious as she picked up an expensive bottle of shampoo that smelled fantastic. She swallowed, fighting a battle with her inner self, and put it in her basket, along with the matching conditioner. She justified it by arguing that she needed to look her best for her new job. With a curt nod, she also picked up a body wash, moisturizer, and some makeup. She wasn’t one for a lot of facial products, usually going without entirely, but she didn’t want to disappoint.

Molly’s mind dwelled on her new employer. She wondered what he was like, if he was anything at all like his brother. She hoped not. Mycroft Holmes reduced her normally impassive demeanor to that of a stammering idiot. Her eyes narrowed.

_I really need to work on that. Even if the man is the British Government, I should be able to have a conversation with him without being intimidated to the point of incoherence._

She shook her head and moved down the aisle, picking up hair ties and bobby pins. She kept her hair back most of the time, but those ties had a way of disappearing. She wandered about a bit more, her brain still occupied with wrapping around all the changes in her life when she suddenly remembered she had to be back at her flat soon. She hurriedly checked out, cringing at the price she was paying, and jogged back down the street to her flat.

She didn’t see the tall man, leaning in the doorway of the coffee shop across the street, watching her.

\-------------------------------------

Molly got back home just in time to transfer her purchases to an overnight bag before the car came for her. She was informed via text from Anthea that she should come down and she looked around her flat one last time, taking a deep breath. She squared her shoulders and headed down the stairs.

\--------------------------------------

Anthea’s lips pursed as she took in the slight woman climbing into the back of the vehicle. She couldn’t see the interest that (apparently) both Holmes men had taken in the shy girl.

_Oh well, it’s not my job to understand them._

\---------------------------------------

Molly spent the ride silently gazing out the window. She’d learned from earlier in the day that she would get nothing more than monosyllabic answers from the woman across from her who seemed glued to her phone. She wondered vaguely if Anthea was her real name but decided that it didn’t really matter. She’d call herself something different too, if she worked for the most powerful man in the country.

They pulled up outside a building and Molly looked up.

There was a café next door, which Molly was grateful for; she could cook but didn’t always want to put forth the effort when she was the only beneficiary. The door was black with a worn gold, _(or is that brass?)_ knocker that was slightly off center. She sat staring for a moment before Anthea cleared her throat.

“Oh right, I just, I just go on in?”

For some reason, the smug smile Anthea gave her as she handed her the key didn’t sit well.

“Yes Miss Hooper, go right in. Your things are waiting for you in your bedroom.”

“Ok, um, thanks.” Molly said, in a small voice, and after receiving no reply, she climbed out of the car with her bag in hand.

The car drove away and Molly was left looking after it a bit forlorn. She took a deep breath and walked over to the door, taking a moment to look up. She thought for a second that the curtain in the upstairs window twitched but dismissed it as a sign of her nerves.

She put her key in the lock and started to twist when suddenly, the door was wrenched from her grasp. She bit back a scream as a head poked out from the, now wide open, door.

“Molly Hooper.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement that came from the man looking out at her. His bright, ice blue eyes swept over her and she got the same uncomfortable sensation she had experienced the previous day when speaking with Mycroft Holmes.

There was a slight resemblance but this man was quite a bit younger, mid to late twenties, she’d guess, and oh so very handsome. He had tousled dark curls above those gorgeous cat-like eyes and the most amazing bone structure she had ever seen in a person’s face. His cheekbones were impossibly high and his nose prominent. The look on his face though screamed annoyance. Molly stared at him, stunned. Never mind that he was the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen, what was he doing in her flat?

_And how does he know my name?_

“Don’t ask such stupid questions.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking loud enough they can hear you down the street.”

Her brow furrowed as he rolled his eyes at her and moved back to let her enter. When she didn’t move, he reached out and grabbed her upper arm, dragging her into the flat and closing the door behind her.


	3. Nice to Meet You

“Get your hands off of me!”

“Gladly, Miss Hooper!”

An irate Molly Hooper stood with her hands on her hips, facing a disgruntled man in his dressing gown.

They were both breathing a bit heavily after Molly having fought against the unknown man and his subsequent throwing her over his shoulder and stalking up the stairs with her screaming and kicking the whole way. When he got into the upstairs flat, which Molly knew to be hers, he dropped her onto the floor like a sack of potatoes. She’d jumped to her feet, ready to defend herself and screamed at him to not touch her. As soon as the words left her mouth though, she stopped.

Her mouth dropped open.

The flat was obviously occupied. And judging by the furnishings, it was occupied by a male.

Her heart dropped. Surely she was not expected to share a flat with a man she didn’t even know. Which brought up the question, who on Earth was this man who treated her with such little respect?

“Sherlock Holmes, at your service.” No attempt to hide the sarcasm from the man in front of her.

“What are you doing in my flat?” she asked, haughtily. Molly Anne Hooper would not be talked down to, even if she was screaming internally to just get the hell out of there and out of the presence of this man who simultaneously infuriated and aroused her.

“I believe the better question would be, what are YOU doing in MY flat? But since I already know the answer, there is no need for either question, is there?”

Molly’s mouth opened and closing a few times before he rolled his eyes and brought his hands up to rub his temples. With his eyes closed in what appeared to be frustration, he groaned.

“Please tell me Mycroft actually found me someone of intelligence instead of one of the common idiots that roam the streets.”

Molly bristled. “Mr. Holmes. I believe there has been a mistake, now if you will excuse me, I will be leaving to speak to your brother and get the situation resolved because you are obviously going to be no help in this matter.” She glared daggers at him and turned to go back down the stairs.

“Unfortunately, there has been no mistake. You have been hired as my assistant and you will be residing here. Your new furniture has been delivered and assembled and your belongings are in your room. While you remain here, you will keep to your room or the sitting area,” he gestured around them at the messy room, “You will not tamper with the experiments, or remove anything from the kitchen, including the refrigerator, without my consent. You will be neat and concise when reporting to me on the aspects of the crime scenes you will be investigating and the bodies you will examine. You will not bother me while I am working, actually, not at all unless you have a spectacular reason for it. You will be quiet and clean and you will, under no circumstances, enter my room or bathroom. Are we clear?”

Molly stood dumbfounded as he poured out this tirade, the only coherent thought in her head being, _what the hell have I gotten myself into?_ Deciding she would figure all this out later, and that she didn’t want to grace him with an answer after his complete lack of consideration for her, she nodded curtly and pivoted on her heel, finding her way to the stairs that led to her room.

“What, nothing? No anger, no frustration? Nothing?” Sherlock called after her as she began to exit the room.

She glanced over her shoulder. “You are baiting me, Mr. Holmes. I will not be drawn into a petty argument with you. As you said, I have been hired to be your assistant, nothing more. Good day.”

With that, she headed up the stairway, leaving behind a very frustrated and confused detective.

\--------------------------------

Sherlock paced in his room, hearing the sounds of Molly unpacking coming from above him. He ran a hand through his curls in exasperation. _What the hell was Mycroft thinking? I’ll break this girl in a heartbeat! She’s a tiny, weak, little girl and this is no place for her. Even if she is brilliant._

Sherlock knew that Molly was, indeed, brilliant. Obviously not on the level of himself or Mycroft, but still quite intelligent. When he had first been told of the plan to find him an assistant, he had insisted on looking over the applications himself. Molly caught his eye, as well as that of his brother. She was quiet, smart, patient, and, best of all, had no family in case anything went wrong.

That last thought hadn’t really bothered Sherlock until he had scooped the petite student up in his arms and was carrying her up the stairs. Then, it hit him that he really didn’t want anything to go wrong with Molly in the flat. His diatribe had been mostly to see if he could run her off immediately.

Half of him hoped it would; the other half was desperate for her to stay.

He ran his hands through his hair again, messing it up even more, as his frustration and anxiety grew to fever pitch. He was getting extremely agitated, something he wanted to avoid at all costs, now that he was not the only occupant of the flat.

He sat down on his bed, taking deep breaths to calm himself. Without realizing it, he began to reason with himself.

_Calm down, you don’t want her to see you like this. Not ever but especially not now. Just relax. You can’t scare her like this. Don’t do it. Just calm down._

\------------------------------------

Molly flopped on her bed after almost three hours of unpacking. Her old clothes were neatly hung in the closet alongside the new ones purchased for her by Anthea. She had run her fingers over the expensive materials, wondering at the cost of them all. They were certainly nicer than anything she had ever owned before.

Her new bed was a gorgeous canopy bed, draped with white gauze-type material. Her mouth had dropped open when she saw it. The new bedding was simple, with a deep purple comforter and white sheets but as she lay on it, she realized that it was high quality. Everything was so soft and silky against the bare skin of her arms.

The room held a matching dresser, into which she placed her underwear, starting a bit when she opened the first drawer and it was already piled with matching bra and knicker sets. _Anthea._ She moved down a couple drawers and found an empty one to put her old underthings into.

Looking around the large room, Molly had decided that there was enough space to put a desk and chair in the corner. She still had the check given to her by Mycroft Holmes, so she resolved to purchase one the following day, justifying it by the amount of homework she always had for her medical classes. She desperately needed some bookshelves too but she decided to wait for those.

Her stomach growled and she sighed against the covers. _Damn, now I’ve got to go downstairs and face that awful, gorgeous man. Ugh._ She hauled herself up and proceeded down the stairs and to the kitchen. There was no sign of her employer, which she was glad of. She opened the fridge and stuck her head in, yelping and banging it on the top of the open fridge when she saw what appeared to be a jar full of eyeballs. The sound of movement behind her made her whirl around. Sherlock leaned against the doorframe casually, with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

“Don’t tell me the aspiring pathologist is afraid of a few body parts?” he said, smugly.

She glared at him with her hands on her hips. “Why are there body parts where there should be food?”

The smug look didn’t leave his face as he answered simply, “Because I want them there.”

She sighed, throwing her hands up in the air. “I’ll go out.”

His brow furrowed and he glanced quickly at the window, and back to her. “It’s dark.”

“I know,” she said, walking past him to the door, grabbing her purse on the way. “I’m a big girl.”

He followed her to the door, obviously agitated, but Molly didn’t care why. She was hungry and she was going to get something to eat dammit.


	4. The Chippy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to my awesome girls Lisa and Pulpbomb for the support!  
> Speaking of support, Pulpbomb has published a fantastic Sherstrade Omegaverse story! Go! Check it out!!

Molly chewed her lip, staring up at the menu written in chalk above the deli counter.

Her stomach growled and she self-consciously glanced around, hoping it wasn’t so loud that other people could hear it. In the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of an umbrella and sighed.

“I’ll be with you in a moment, Mr. Holmes.”

“I believe what I have to say supersedes your dinner, Miss Hooper.”

She whirled around, hands on her hips.

“I don’t care if you are the British government, I’m hungry and since your **_charming_** brother only has body parts in the fridge, I’m getting my dinner here. Now. You can talk to me while I eat.”

_I might have crossed the line there,_ Molly thought as Mycroft’s lips tightened. But instead of yelling at, or worse, firing her, he merely nodded and, to her surprise, took a place behind her in the line.

“I’ll add a bit more to your compensation to cover groceries. Buy more than you think you’ll need. Sherlock will eat it if it’s there.”

“Oh, um, ok.” She nervously tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

They stood silently until it was their turn to order and Mycroft surprised her yet again by paying for her meal.

He followed her to a table and sat, picking at some chips while she ate her sandwich and chips with gusto. She’d been too nervous to eat earlier in the day so by now, she felt she could eat a horse.

“As you now know, Miss Hooper, you will be residing in the spare bedroom of my brother’s flat. You will insure that he does not leave at any time, for any reason.”

She quirked up a brow at this.

“And exactly how am I supposed to do that? He’s quite a bit larger than I am.”

“Simple. You will inform me if he ever leaves. I will take care of it.”

Molly sighed. “Mr. Holmes, I was under the impression that I was to be his assistant, not his babysitter. What is my real purpose here?”

He looked at her for a long moment and she got that uncomfortable twinge she felt in her previous conversations with the man. That horrible feeling that he could see right through her. She shook it off with a nervous smile.

“Miss Hooper, your purpose is to be whatever my brother needs. An eye at crime scenes, a pathologist for the victims, an ear when he needs it, a presence when he doesn’t. In short, Miss Hooper, you are his world now. Do not take your duties lightly.”

He stood and nodded at her, turning and gliding quickly and silently out of the shop and to the waiting car outside, leaving Molly gaping awkwardly at his retreating back and his half-finished chips on the table.

Still staring out of the door where she last saw him, she groped around clumsily, her fingers settling on one of his abandoned chips and she absently brought it up to her mouth, chewing slowly. Her hunger was all but forgotten as she ate, more out of habit than need. She repeated over Mycroft’s words over and over in her head.

_You’re his world now,_ ran through her mind on an endless loop. _Well what the hell does that mean? Surely I’m not his sole contact with the outside world? Right?_

Molly got a sick feeling in her stomach as she thought over everything she knew so far.

Mycroft wanted to be told if Sherlock left. When she had arrived, Sherlock had literally dragged her inside and shut the door hurriedly. The tabloids all said that no one had seen the famous detective since he abruptly quit taking cases all that time ago. He was obviously trying to run her off with that little display of arrogance earlier.

_Hmmmm…_

Her thoughts were shattered suddenly by the sound of a cough from somewhere in front of her. Molly’s eyes cleared and she focused on the shy grin of a man sitting a table away from her. She cheeks flushed as she realized that the whole time she was mindlessly eating, she was staring straight through him. He grinned at her.

“Am I that good looking?” he teased gently.

“Oh no, I mean, yes, I mean, oh god.” Molly cradled her head in her hands, highly embarrassed.

The man chuckled. “It’s ok, I know you weren’t actually looking at me. That’s gotta be some problem you’ve got to make you think so hard about it.”

She glanced up to see he was still smiling at her and she nodded.

“Yeah this one is a doozy,” she groaned, sounding like a petulant child.

“Wanna talk about it?” he replied, moving to grab his food, showing his intent to move to her table if she answered in the affirmative.

Molly took a moment to examine the young man. He looked nice enough; sweet grin, dark eyes and hair and a wiry frame. He was a bit taller than her, but not too much and he wore a grey tee shirt with jeans that rode a little too low, showing a glimpse of his brightly colored pants. His Irish lilt was calming somehow and Molly found herself nodding and watching as he gathered up his food and drink and moved to the seat that Mycroft had vacated moments before.

“Hi, I’m Jim,” he said, reaching a hand out to shake hers.

She grasped his hand, (slightly sweaty,) and replied, “I’m Molly, nice to meet you, Jim.”

He smiled that half grin again and folded his hands together, elbows on the table, and rested his chin on them.

“So what’s this doozy of a problem you’ve got, Mols?”

_Mols? That’s a new one._

She giggled, nervously, and twirled a bit of hair from her long ponytail around her finger.

 “Ok see here’s the deal.” Molly took a deep breath, something in the back of head mind screaming at her to keep her story vague. She obeyed. “I got hired to be a personal assistant to someone. Take notes, that sort of thing. It pays handsomely, but I’ve found that I have a lot more duties than I was told at first and my boss is, well, my boss is an arse, to put it bluntly. He’s a spoiled prat and I don’t know why he’s so awful.”

Molly sat silently as Jim contemplated her for a moment. His dark gaze was… odd. Like there was something lurking behind the simple man in front of her but he blinked and it was gone.

_Imagining things now are we, Molly?_

Suddenly, he grinned, ruefully. “Ah, some people, they’ll just take advantage of anyone, won’t they?” he shook his head sadly. “Too bad he got you that way. Can’t you just quit?”

Molly shook her head. “No, I’ve got to pay too many bills. This job provides my flat, all utilities, my school and food. Plus spending money. I can’t possibly afford all of that otherwise.”

He whistled through his teeth. “Shite, that’s some paycheck you’ve got there. No wonder you’re so upset about it. Did you say school?” At her nod, he continued. “What are you going to school for?”

“I’m in medical school right now. I want to become a pathologist. Eventually. But I have to pay for all my school myself. My employer has arranged private classes for me so I’m available the hours he needs me to work.”

Another whistle. “Wow, seems like he’s got some influence.”

Molly raised a brow and dodged the question. “I don’t know, I’ve heard of some other students doing it.”

“Pathology, huh? Sounds cool. I just work in IT. Computers all day long, every day. It’s nice to talk to another human.” He gave her a pointed look and she smiled slightly.

“Yes, well, this human has got to get back to her flat. I’ve got an early day tomorrow.”

He smiled. “Of course. It was nice to meet you, Mols.”

She stood to go and gathered up her trash to throw away.

“Oh, I’ll get that, don’t worry about it.” He flashed her a crooked grin. “Least I could do to thank you for keeping me company.”

She blushed, not knowing how to reply to that. “Ummm, thanks?”

He laughed as she turned to go out the door. Before she reached it though, he called out to her.

“Oh and Mols?” She looked back over her shoulder at him as he stood and sauntered over to where she waited by the door.

“Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous man. You should stay away from him. You’re much too fragile to keep that kind of company.”

He reached out and ran one finger down her jawline and she shuddered, his friendly gaze gone as his dark eyes bore into her. He leaned to whisper in her ear.

“Sherlock Holmes will get you killed if you don’t watch out.” He turned to head out of the door, calling over his shoulder, “Do be careful, Molly.”

Belatedly, Molly realized she hadn’t ever told him who her employer was.


	5. Confrontation

Molly stumbled into Baker Street a few minutes later, with no other desire than to take a nice hot bath and get some sleep. It had been a long day and she was feeling the stress of everything settle into her neck and shoulders. She cracked her neck as she walked in the door and jumped when a deep voice called out from the kitchen.

“That’s incredibly annoying, do stop.”

She sighed, toeing off her shoes as she held onto the door frame, and dropping her bag to the floor.

_Hello to you too._

Sherlock appeared in the entryway to the kitchen and leaned his tall frame against the wall. His eyes swept over her disinterestedly for a moment, before his brow creased.

“Who were you eating with?”

Molly froze in the midst of removing her coat. She glanced at him, a question in her eyes and he rolled his in response.

“Obvious. You ate with a man. Not my brother, though he was there, someone else. Who?”

She finished taking off her coat and hung it on the peg next to his. She briefly wondered why he needed one, since he never left the flat, but the thought left her mind rather quickly.

“I met a friend of yours.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to look puzzled. “A friend? Impossible. John and Mary are away on holiday.”

_He only has two friends?_

“I was being sarcastic, Mr. Holmes.”

“I’m not Mr. Holmes!” he snapped, surprising her with his vehemence. “Mycroft is Mr. Holmes. I’m just Sherlock. Remember that, would you? Now, who is this friend of mine?”

“I don’t know. He said his name was Jim.” She looked down at her hands, where she had unconsciously been picking her nail polish again.

_Gotta repaint them before class._

\---------------------------------

Sherlock watched the tiny woman before him pick away at her nails, obviously nervous. He deduced quickly that something had unnerved her about the man she had dinner with.

He hated that phrase.

_If she didn’t like him why did she eat with him? Ex? No, no prior acquaintance. He must have said something that bothered her then. Maybe a sexual overture?_

He didn’t like that idea at all, though he had no clue why it bothered him.

“What did he say to you?”

Molly’s head shot up and she bit down on her lip. Sherlock had to pry his eyes away from her little mouth when she sank her teeth into the flesh there.

“Um, well, he told me to stay away from you. That you were trouble.”

A stab of rage cut through Sherlock. Partly that someone would dare say that to Molly; partly that Molly told someone she worked for him.

“You idiot! Why would you tell someone you work for me?! Are you that stupid?!” he yelled at her, eyes wide with anger, his face contorted with his rage. He crossed the room, grabbing her upper arms tightly and shaking her slightly.

Molly cringed, his outburst and grip taking her by surprise.

“I didn’t, I didn’t! I didn’t tell him! He knew already! I never said your name!” she gasped out, wincing in his tight grasp.

Sherlock stopped cold. He slowly released her, staring down into her face, her eyes wide. Her fear made him calm almost instantly.

_No, don’t be afraid of me. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it._

He was expressionless as he studied her.

“He knew that you worked for me without you telling him?” he questioned.

She nodded, fearfully.

“And you said his name was Jim?”

She nodded again, mute for the moment.

_Jim, Jim, Jim… We don’t know a Jim, do we? Of course, he could be lying but what reason would he have for that? No, his name is Jim. But who is he?_

He realized he was still standing very close to her and stepped back, folding his hands behind his back. He stared at her another second before turning on his heel and marching to his room, slamming the door behind him.

\----------------------------

Molly watched Sherlock go and heard the door shut before she dared to move. She gently rubbed her upper arms, thinking ruefully that she’d probably have bruises in the morning. She desperately needed a bath, but wasn’t sure if she had the energy for it after such an eventful day.

She continued to stare in the direction Sherlock had gone for a moment, then slowly turned and climbed the staircase to her room, flopping on the bed, fully clothed, and was asleep almost instantly.

\------------------------------

Sherlock was vibrating with anger.

Who DARED to frighten his Molly?

_Wait, my Molly? Oh no, don’t start getting ideas._

He heard her flop on her bed, the indignant squeak of the frame clearly audible through the ceiling of his room.

When there were no other sounds, Sherlock realized she had fallen asleep instantly.

_She’ll be cold. We could turn the heat up, but then we would be uncomfortable. We could go cover her up with a blanket._

Part of his mind screamed at him that it was an invasion of her privacy and he shouldn’t enter her room, especially since he had forbidden her to go into his, but the other part argued that he didn’t want her to get sick. That she wouldn’t be able to perform her duties if she got sick.

_Right then._

Sherlock left his room, stopping in the bath to reach into the linen closet and pull out a thick blanket. He crept silently up the stairs to her room and pushed the door open. She’d been too distracted to even close it all the way. He shook his head.

_Careless. She should’ve closed and locked it._

Sherlock tiptoed into the room and stood next to the bed, gazing down at the sleeping form of Molly Hooper. She lay sprawled out on the bed diagonally, her feet hanging of the side. She was on her stomach, with her face turned to the side, her hair falling across her cheek. Sherlock almost forgot why he was there, lost in staring down at the petite girl.

_Enough of that. Put the blanket on her and leave._

He shook his head, startling himself out of the reverie and covered her, practically running out of the room when he finished.

The second he hit the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock’s teeth bared.

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” he snarled as he walked into the sitting room, stalking over to stand over his brother in a menacing manner.

Mycroft merely raised a brow at his brother’s behavior and exhaled a sigh.

“Such violence in your demeanor, brother mine. Mummy would be ashamed.” He put down the cup of tea that seemed to have appeared by magic. Sherlock certainly couldn’t remember making it so it must have been Mycroft himself.

“You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”

Sherlock flopped into his chair, pulling his legs up and affecting his most sulky air. He hated dealing with Mycroft, even more so now that he controlled basically every part of Sherlock’s life.

“No doubt you know Miss Hooper had dinner with a man.” Mycroft regarded Sherlock with his brow raised, as if waiting for Sherlock to have a negative reaction to his statement.

“Yes, of course. Something about him warning her against me.” Sherlock rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. “I already know this, Mycroft, what’s your point?”

Mycroft leaned in towards Sherlock, abandoning his tea onto the side table. “You can’t afford to lose her. She’s invaluable to you if you want to continue your little consulting detective game.”

“I could protect her better if you would let me leave this damned flat!” Sherlock burst out, leaping to his feet, knocking his chair backwards to the floor where it made a loud thump. He cringed, his eyes darting to the ceiling, waiting for a noise that would indicate he had woken the girl above.

He glanced back at Mycroft, who was beyond smug. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother.

“I don’t want her to come down here. She annoys me,” he defended himself. He definitely didn’t want Mycroft thinking he harbored some feeling for Molly, Sherlock knew that his brother would find a way to use that against him.

“We both know why you aren’t allowed out of this place, Sherlock. And if you were, you would have no need of Miss Hooper. But you have to tell her what she needs to fear. Keeping her in the dark could get her killed, brother. You know that.” Mycroft folded his hands over his lap, the picture of serenity.

“Then why didn’t you tell her when you hired her?!” Sherlock spat back at the man across from him. He was losing his temper and fought hard to keep his calm. His hands fisted at his sides as he glared down at Mycroft.

“You know perfectly well why I didn’t tell her. She would never have come.” Mycroft’s eyes did not miss the tension in his brother’s body and he stood, heading for the door.

“There was a body discovered a little over an hour ago, so Lestrade should be by with a case for you in the morning. Molly’s classes will begin again on Monday morning. I’ll send Anthea by with the details.”

With that, he was gone, leaving Sherlock breathing deeply in the living room, trying so hard to keep his rage in check.


	6. On the Job

Molly awoke abruptly to the sound of banging on her bedroom door and Sherlock’s impatient voice.

“Wake up Hooper! We’ve got a case!” The banging continued and Molly groaned, putting a pillow over her head to drown out the pounding. The door burst open after a minute and light flooded in when the shutters were wrenched open.

“Go away!” she moaned out, her body protesting movement. She made a mental note not to ever pass out in her clothes again, especially in that uncomfortable position, and sat up. She glanced down at the blanket that covered her and frowned.

_How did this get here?_

Molly watched as Sherlock began to pace back and forth, his long stride making short work of the length of it.

_One, two, three, turn. One, two, three, turn. One, two-_

Sherlock’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“- at the scene right now, you’ll need to get there right away. Lestrade is downstairs waiting to take you.” He rattled off the details and her sleep fogged mind tried to keep up.

“Wait, I’ve got to go examine a crime scene? Right now?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course not. I have video of the scene from last night. You’ll be accompanying Lestrade to Bart’s to perform an autopsy. I’ll be watching via webcam.” He glanced around as if throwing clothes at her would hurry her up.

Molly glared at him. “Don’t they have qualified pathologists at Bart’s? It’s a prestigious hospital. Why would they just let me barge in? I haven’t even graduated.”

He sighed. “The pathologists,” he said that word with distain, “at Bart’s are all idiots, you’re more intelligent than all of them put together.” She blushed at the compliment but he didn’t seem to notice. “Besides, none of them would work with me when I was still out there,” he waved vaguely in the direction of the window, “and they most certainly wouldn’t be able to handle what I’m working on now. They’re all so dense.”

Molly exhaled slowly. “And what makes you think I’ll be able to handle it?”

He examined her a minute, his eyes flitting across her petite frame and returning to her face. “I’m never wrong.”

With that statement, he turned and made for the door, barking out orders for her to dress and for God’s sakes, comb her hair, and get downstairs immediately.

After the storm that was her employer exited the room, Molly stood slowly, stretching out like a cat. She opened her closet, frowning at the rows of new clothes, courtesy of Anthea. She had no idea how to dress. On the one hand, she would be performing an autopsy. On the other, she had to look like she belonged there. She settled on a plain black pair of trousers and a pale blue button up. After sliding on her black flats, she examined herself in the mirror.

She ran her brush through her hair, tying it back into a high ponytail and nodded with satisfaction. She rarely bothered with much makeup. Today, she decided to forego it altogether.

\------------------------------------

Sherlock paced the sitting room in front of a silver haired, world weary, man. Lestrade lounged in one of the two chairs in front of the fireplace, sipping a cup of tea. His face was creased with confusion.

“Sherlock, why can’t you just use the pathologist Mycroft dug up? He’s been good. Why the sudden need to find someone else?”

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose between his long fingers. “Because, Lestrade,” his tone was one of a parent trying to explain something to a child. “The crimes we deal with aren’t for the masses to know and I’m tired of having to communicate with someone my brother controls. It makes for too much… annoyance.” He shuddered.

“Doesn’t your brother pay this girl though? Isn’t that the same thing? He controls her too.” Lestrade argued, ignoring the man-child’s tone.

The detective shook his head. “No. He might sign her check but this one isn’t that easily bought. She’s an idealist. Money isn’t going to sway her from what her conscious-“ he spat out the last word like it was a bitter food, “-says is right.”

“Well that sounds like a hell of a match for you, mate. You don’t have a conscious at all.” Lestrade grinned as Sherlock shot him a dirty look. “Oh come on, I’m joking. We both know that isn’t true. Granted, not many other people know it.” He shrugged. “But we do.”

“Where is she?!” Sherlock turned to go back up the stairs but Molly entered the room before he could get more than a couple steps. He frowned when he heard the Detective Inspector’s sputter that indicated he had seen Molly.

_Aren’t you still married, inspector? Even if she is cheating on you again with that p.e. teacher._

Molly stood awkwardly in the doorway and Sherlock made an annoyed noise before walking to her and grabbing her upper arm, steering her into the room and over to Lestrade.

“Miss Hooper, Detective Inspector Lestrade. He’ll be escorting you to Bart’s and back today and to any crime scenes in the future as well as providing clearance for whatever you might need. Gavin, this is Miss Molly Hooper, my assistant, though you already know that.”

Sherlock ignored the itch in the back of his mind to beat the look of interest off of Greg’s face as he hurriedly corrected Sherlock (who had called him the wrong name on purpose) and shook Molly’s hand.

He stood silently for a moment, observing Molly’s body language, satisfied that he found no major attraction there. He told himself that he was only worried about it because it was in his best interests to keep them apart so that their working relationship would not suffer.

\----------------------------------

The older man in front of her smiled warmly and Molly liked him instantly. He was tall, though not as tal as her employer, and had a boyish charm when he grinned, despite the salt and pepper hair he sported. He was tanned and had chocolate brown eyes. Normally, that was the type of man she could fall for but as she gazed at him, besides the observation that he was handsome, Molly felt no real attraction. She glanced over at Sherlock, whose brow was furrowed, but she wasn’t sure why.

“Yes, yes, Lestrade, you can flirt on your own time. Now will you please get on with business and get Miss Hooper to the morgue so we can finish this case?!” Sherlock was obviously frustrated and the DI took a step back. He looked to Molly when she didn’t move, then back to Sherlock, understanding, then anger settling in his gaze.

“What the bloody hell, Sherlock?! She doesn’t know, does she? Shite, and she’s LIVING here!” He reached over and pulled Molly back a step from Sherlock, putting himself slightly in front of her.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and his gaze could only be described as cold. So much so, that Molly shivered involuntarily.

“Miss Hooper will be informed when it is necessary and it is not your job to tell her anything. Simply escort her there and back. Now go.” He turned his back and stalked out of the room, slamming the door to his bedroom shut when he got there.

Molly gave a perplexed glance to Lestrade, whose brow furrowed in thought, before he shrugged and headed down the stairs, muttering under his breath. Molly followed, wondering again what the hell she had gotten herself into.

\------------------------------

Sherlock listened to the downstairs door close and flopped on his bed, eying his closet. He kept some in there for emergencies, though he hadn’t used in a long time. He couldn’t afford the loss of control anymore. He shook his head and rolled over, setting his alarm for one hour; the amount of time he estimated it would take to get Molly to Bart’s and mostly set up for her first autopsy under his employ.


	7. Proving Worth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short. I'm focusing most of my efforts on How to Play a Game Called Murder right now so I can get it finished up and have more time for this one and Frigid Negotiations (the frozen!omegaverse!au.)

Molly sighed as she scrubbed her hands and arms to the elbows. Sherlock’s behavior was bothering her. She was so confused by the brilliant, enigmatic man who shared her flat. Or rather, she shared his.

She had subtly tried to pry information out of the handsome DI who escorted her to the morgue, but he wouldn’t crack.

“Sherlock Holmes is a great man. Maybe someday he’ll be a good one as well,” was all she got out of the tight-lipped older man.

_Whatever the hell that means._

Her thoughts drifted back to the man who had woken her that morning. She knew he was hiding something from her. Something huge, but Molly had no idea what that could be.

_Curiosity killed the cat,_ she warned herself before suddenly smiling. _But satisfaction brought him back._ Molly was determined that her curiosity towards her new employer would be satisfied one way or another. She pushed him to the back of her thoughts and focused on her surroundings.

She examined the room around her. It was stark and clinical, as expected of a room of that type. All the white hurt Molly’s eyes but she guessed she had better get used to it if she wanted to be working in that environment for the foreseeable future. The metal of the tables was polished and cold and Molly ran a finger over the surface of one, relishing the coolness against her overheated skin. The lab coat was heavy and hot, and it was making her cheeks flush a shade of rosy red. She glanced over at the Detective Inspector, who was standing next to a scruffy man, watching him set up a small camera.

“Oi, Billy, how’d he rope you into doing this?” the silver-haired man questioned.

“Ah, you know. The boss needs all kinds of things done for him. This ain’t the strangest by a long shot,” replied the other, who Molly secretly thought looked like a bum. She pursed her lips, studying them, until he huffed in satisfaction and they both stepped away; one out the door with a mock salute, and the other, Lestrade, to stand next to Molly.

“Alright, Wiggins has got the camera all set up. Whenever you’re ready, wheel out the body. I’ll call Sherlock to make sure he’s watching.” He pulled out his phone, punching a speed dial number and holding it up to his ear.

“Yeah, Sherlock, oh hey John! I thought you were still traveling. Oh, ok, yeah is he there? Ok tell him we’re ready.” He hung up his phone and nodded to Molly. “Alright, he’s watching. Just do an exam like you normally would and note everything out loud. I’ll take pictures as we go and send them to him.”

Molly took a deep breath and let it out.

_No reason to be nervous. You’re brilliant at this. Just pretend you’re back in class._

She lifted her head up, her chin at a defiant angle, and smiled to herself.

_Here’s something you’re more capable at than Sherlock Bloody Holmes._

With those words of encouragement, she practically skipped over to the drawer and removed the body.

Her eyes flitted over the man as she wheeled him to her station and her words poured out without conscious thought.

“Tall, broad build, multiple lacerations all along the torso centering on the neck area.” She pulled the flesh apart with a gloved hand. “A serrated knife? No, more like claws. I don’t know what kind of animal is large enough to tear a man apart like this though.” She picked up her saw and got to work, disassembling the body, learning its secrets, all the while talking aloud to the camera and the silent Detective Inspector, who circled the body snapping photos with his phone at every interval.

\---------------------------

Sherlock sat in front of his computer, hands steepled in front of his face, with his fingers occasionally rubbing across his full bottom lip. He narrowed his eyes, glancing back and forth between the screen and his phone, where pictures were popping up, one after another.

He had to admit, Molly Hooper was quite thorough in her examination of the victim. Of course, he already knew what the cause of death was, he was just letting her practice and maybe come to the right conclusion herself, though he doubted that so early on in the game. He was really hoping that she thought to get a dna sample from the cuts in the man’s flesh. That would make his job quite a bit easier.

He grinned triumphantly when Molly suddenly stopped in the middle of weighing the liver to grab up a pair of tweezers and pluck a long, black hair from one of the cuts and put it in an evidence bag, which Lestrade took from her.

_Good show, Molly._

He watched attentively as his assistant methodically performed her duties, not slipping up at all. He had to admit, she was very good at it. She would make a great pathologist one day.

_If he let her go._

He shook that thought from his mind, knowing it wasn’t good. He tried hard to shut down that part of his brain, to keep it locked away in a trunk, deep in an unused closet of his mind palace. He was disturbed by the fact that since he first saw his new assistant, standing on the doorstep outside his flat, that portion of his brain had been more active than it had in years. Being alone was what protected him and he wasn’t about to give that up. Not when the last time he did had such dire consequences. Ones that still haunted him into the present day.

Sherlock opened his eyes just as Molly finished with the body and had begun to scrub out. He watched the way she moved, confident in her actions. After a moment, he shook himself and closed his computer. He was playing a dangerous game and for the first time, Sherlock wasn’t sure what exactly winning meant.


	8. Drawing Conclusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the comments and follows! I love you guys!

Molly sighed as she climbed the steps up to the flat she shared with the world’s only consulting detective. She was glad there was only one; he was enough trouble on his own.

Detective Inspector Lestrade preceded her up the staircase and into the sitting room. He’d asked her to call him Greg repeatedly and she was trying but it was still easier to think of him as Detective Inspector. She supposed that she’d get used to it though, as it appeared they’d be seeing quite a bit of each other. Lestrade, (Greg, she reminded herself,) had mentioned something about being the only person who worked with Sherlock, though Molly wasn’t sure whether that was because Sherlock was a huge prat and no one else would deal with him or because the detective insisted on Lestrade. She had a feeling it was a mixture of both.

“Ahh Molly,” Sherlock greeted her from his position sprawled out on the couch in his dressing gown. One of his arms was tensed, making a fist several times and her eyes narrowed as his sleeve fell slightly, revealing not one, but three nicotine patches. Caught up in her observation, she failed to notice the look Sherlock gave Lestrade when the officer reached to help her take off her coat. She shrugged out of it and smiled gratefully, as the silver-haired man hung it on a peg by the door.

“So what’s on your agenda for the rest of the day,” Lestrade asked, smiling down at her.

“Umm, I think I’ll buy myself a desk to go in my room. Lots of studying to do, you know.” She twirled a piece of hair around her finger thoughtfully. “I need some shelves for all my books too but I think I’ll have to get them at a later time.”

“I could help you if-”

“I’ll have no more use for you today, Lestrade. When that DNA test comes back you’ll have the name of your killer. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Sherlock called out with his eyes closed.

Greg sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically before winking at Molly, and headed back down the stairs.

\--------------------------

As soon as Sherlock heard the door slam behind Lestrade, he leapt up, causing Molly to jump and let out a little yelp at the suddenness of it. He narrowed his eyes at her, circling her still form in the manner of a predator, analyzing her.

“Well that was rude,” the girl said, nervously. He moved closer to her, still walking around her, every angle of her, subject to his scrutiny.

The detective didn’t miss the flush that crept into his assistant’s cheeks at his proximity. He allowed himself a smirk behind her back before moving back to face her.

“What are your conclusions, Miss Hooper?” he asked suddenly, causing her to jump again. She was easily startled, a trait which Sherlock had already begun to use to his advantage. He liked to throw her off kilter. He wondered just how far he could through her off if he said the words that had been in his mind since the moment he’d set eyes on her.

After a moment of silence, he realized she was studying his face and the slight upturn of her lips advertised that she was quite aware of his wandering thoughts. He only hoped that she didn’t know the direction they had gone.

“Miss Hooper!” he barked. “Your conclusions!”

He could tell what her answer would be before it left her lips by the defiant set of her shoulders and the look of irony on her face.

“Werewolves did it, sir,” she smirked, thinking herself clever with her answer, wanting to antagonize him. Well two could play at that game, Sherlock thought.

“Very good. I didn’t think you’d catch on so quickly.” he bit back a laugh at how her eyes widened in alarm, then narrowed again, annoyed at him for throwing her sarcasm back in her face. She’d learn sooner or later. Sherlock Holmes would fight God for the last word, a mere slip of a girl was no challenge.

She sighed heavily and walked back to the door, retrieving her bag and taking out a manila envelope with a few pages inside.

“Here. All my findings are there. I printed it up before we left Bart’s.”

Sherlock hid his impressed expression. She had to be quite fast to have written everything up and gotten back to the flat as quickly as she did.

“It appears to be some sort of animal attack, going by the size and shape of the lacerations, though here,” she pointed at a picture in the middle of the second page, “you can see bruises,” she pointed them out, the mottled blacks, blues, and purples decorating the skin of the victims neck. “It appears that he was strangled at some point as well, though it wasn’t the cause of death. That was blood loss.”

She stood silently, waiting for him to finish looking over the papers. He glanced up at her, opening his mouth to speak and was distracted by the fact that she was chewing on her lower lip. He watched her for a second before clearing his throat and trying to remember what it was that he had been about to say.

_Oh, there it is._

“Very good, Miss Hooper. You are quite competent and thorough.”

She blushed at his words as he turned away from her, picking up his phone from the coffee table and shooting off a text.

**That makes 3 in the last 12 days.** **\- SH**

Molly’s brow furrowed in confusion and she voiced her questions.

“You told the Detective Inspector that he would have his killer when he got the DNA test back but that was an animal hair. He’s not going to arrest an animal, is he?”

“You may go now. We’re finished,” he said without looking back at her, choosing to ignore her question.

“But, what is it? What killed him?” Molly asked, her face scrunched in consternation.

He finally looked back up at her and winked. “You already know.” He dropped the papers on the table and strode off in the direction of his room, picking up his violin on the way.

\--------------------------------------

Molly threw her hands up in the air with a frustrated sigh.

_Who the hell understands that man?_

She turned and started up the stairs to her room before remembering that she had wanted to purchase a desk. As her stomach growled, she decided she needed to get some groceries as well. She wavered, trying to decide if she was going to get her chores done or take a nap. With another sigh, Molly turned back and headed to the door to put on her coat.

“I’m going out!” she yelled in the direction Sherlock had gone.

She’d barely made it to the top of the stairs when a strong hand grabbed her wrist, wrapping its fingers around her wrist with ease. A low growl sounded behind her as she reflexively tried to jerk her hand free.

“Where are you going?”

Molly looked behind her and saw Sherlock, his eyes narrowed, standing quite close to her. She blushed and avoided his piercing gaze, wrapping her free arm around her.

“Out.”

He smirked and rolled his eyes at her, jerking on her wrist to pull her body flush against his.

“That’s not good enough.”

Molly gasped, her eyes meeting his chest, the buttons on his shirt straining. Sherlock smelled of cigarettes and expensive aftershave and Molly couldn’t help taking in a deep breath through the nose. He used his free hand to tip her head up, his fingers under her chin, and grinned down at her.

She looked up at him, her chocolate eyes meeting his electric blue ones, and her mood turned to anger. Fury that he thought he could make her obey him by exploiting her attraction to him. She pulled back abruptly.

\---------------------------------

Sherlock watched Molly’s expression change and immediately pulled down the shutters on his emotions, hiding everything behind a mask of cold indifference. She unconsciously squared her shoulders to make herself more intimidating, obviously taking his actions as a ploy to get her to obey him.

Sherlock wasn’t sure if she was right or not. His mind was at war with itself, one side screaming for him to stay as far from her as possible, the other wanting her close so he could smell her strawberry and lemon scented shampoo again.

“I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here, Mr. Holmes.” Molly’s voice shook with anger and he frowned.

“What makes you think I don’t want you here?” he asked, relishing the look of surprise that crossed the tiny woman’s face. He took a step forward, once again invading her personal space and leaned down to whisper in her ear.

“You’re exactly where I want you.”


	9. Wiggins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, I'm SO sorry for leaving this story for so long without an update. In my defense, I was trying to finish another fic of mine, but still, super sorry about that.
> 
> This chapter is a bit of background, and introducing a new character, hope you enjoy.

Molly sauntered through the posh furniture store, defiantly licking her ice cream cone. The small act of rebellion was just what she needed to put her mind at ease after the incredibly confusing confrontation with her boss an hour before.

Her gaze flickered to the window, where a homeless boy, no more than seventeen or eighteen, stood, watching people pass by. She’d noticed him twice already that day, once at the ice cream shop and now here. Molly shrugged and turned her attention back to the beautifully crafted, solid walnut desk she’d seen as soon as she’d walked in. The price tag made her balk at first, but her sensible side told her that she had more than enough money and if she took care of it, that it would last her years.

Her mind made up, she decided to look at shelves for her books as well. She knew there wasn’t enough space in her room for an actual bookshelf now that the desk was going in, but she could get some floating shelves.

Molly’s mind wandered as she let her fingers trail over the smooth wood of the different shelves available. Try as she might, she couldn’t figure out Sherlock Holmes. One minute he was cold and indifferent, the next, full of pent up passion. She shook her head. He was a puzzle and she didn’t have the energy or patience to try to solve it right now.

Not finding a shelf she liked, Molly purchased the desk and a comfortable leather swivel chair to go with it. She was exceedingly proud of her purchase, never having bought something quite so nice for herself.

 _It’ll be put to good use,_ she thought, remembering the loads of coursework involved in her degree.

The clerk made a note to have the desk delivered later that day and Molly set off back to Baker Street. She stopped on the way and bought some groceries, and was surprised to find her desk had already arrived by the time she made it back to the flat.

There were two men from the furniture store, but oddly, there were also two raggedy looking teens, who were joined as she arrived, by the boy she’d seen earlier. Her brow furrowed as she realized that he must have been following her.

“Umm, excuse me, what is going on?” she asked timidly of one of the men from the furniture store.

“These kids won’t let us in to set up your desk, Miss. Do you know them?” he asked, dipping his head in greeting to her before motioning to the dirty teens in front of the door.

Before she could answer in the negative, the boy who’d been following her piped up.

“Holmes’ orders, Miss Hooper,” he said politely, his accent much too posh to fit with his persona. “No one goes in but us.” He gestured to the other two dirty teens.

Molly bit her lip, thinking it over, before nodding and turning back to the man from the shop.

“Terribly sorry, I must have forgotten,” she said, flashing a bright smile at the man. He looked confused for a second, but Molly’s flirtatious smile kept him from asking any questions. Instead, he nodded and shook her hand, holding on a tad too long, and telling her that if she ever needed anything to go back to the shop and look for him. She smiled graciously, not letting it drop until he’d climbed back into the delivery truck with his companion and pulled away from the curb.

 She turned back to the teen. Now that she looked at him, she realized that he was the same person who had been at the lab with Lestrade when she did her autopsy. Though then, he’d looked older, probably to get through the hospital’s security, Molly assumed. His accent was different as well. She smiled in spite of herself, oh, he was good.

“Someone has some explaining to do,” she started.

“Not it,” the teen exclaimed, followed swiftly by his comrades.

Molly smothered a smile at their childish behavior.

“Alright, I’ll talk to him then.” She started to head through the open door of the building but paused on the step. “I suppose you know where it goes?” she asked, to which the boys nodded.

“Okay then, but don’t touch anything else in the room.”

There was a bright grin from the boy who’d followed her, who she assumed was the leader.

“Oh Miss, he’d have our heads if we did that.”

With that quip, the boys got to work moving the desk and chair into the building from the sidewalk and Molly headed upstairs to confront Sherlock.

\-------------------------

He’d texted Wiggins right after Molly left the flat.

The boy was a valuable associate, willing to do whatever Sherlock needed and able to pass unnoticed with ease. Sherlock trusted him implicitly, which was not something that could be said for most people.

Years earlier, Sherlock had found a dirty little boy standing on a street corner, looking hungry and forlorn. When asked where he belonged, he’d looked up into Sherlock’s face and gulped.

“Nowhere sir. I don’t belong anywhere.”

Sherlock’s eyes had narrowed. Despite the grim that covered the child from head to foot, his accent was posh and his manners impeccable. He raked his eyes over the boy’s skinny frame and deduced quickly that he’d run away from home, where he was regularly beaten by his drunken father.

“Come along then,” Sherlock had commanded, pleased when the boy had followed without mundane questions.

He’d taken him home, given him clothes and food and for the next few weeks, taught him how to hide in plain sight. Sherlock taught him how to imitate the mannerisms of other, down to hiding his upper-class accent when in the presence of others.

When he had gotten good enough, Billy Wiggins had taken to the streets to be Sherlock’s eyes and ears in the city. He’d even taken it upon himself to recruit those he found trustworthy to help him. Through Wiggins, Sherlock built up the homeless network to the point where he could find out almost anything going on in the city within a matter of a few hours, a day at most. He found it incredibly useful, especially after his incident.

Now, he relied on Wiggins for almost all of his information and the teen delivered, working tirelessly to help his boss. In turn, Sherlock took care of him, making sure that even though he was on the streets, he never went without a place to sleep or food to eat.

 

He’d given him the task of watching Molly, knowing that Wiggins would protect her with his life if need be. Sherlock hoped sincerely that it wouldn’t come to that.

Sherlock watched as Molly arrived back at the flat, and spoke briefly to the men and boys gathered outside. His fist clenched as she obviously flirted with one of the men, but relaxed as he realized that she was simply keeping the man from asking questions. He grinned.

_Oh, you are a smart one, aren’t you, Miss Hooper?_

He looked on as she chatted with the boys, their voices barely carrying up the stairwell to the sitting room. He heard Wiggins attest to the fact that Sherlock wouldn’t stand for them to touch anything in Molly’s room and grinned to himself, knowing the boy spoke the truth. He gaze drifted up to the ceiling.

He hoped that he hadn’t overstepped his boundaries with what he had done while Molly was out.

 _I guess we’ll see soon enough,_ he thought as Molly’s quiet step sounded on the stairs leading up to 221B.


	10. Close Quarters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh so sorry again for the long wait. I finished my super long fic (shameless self promotion, if you haven't read it please do, it's called How to Play a Game Called Murder) and then my hubby had major facial surgery and my youngest is teething. Plus I've been thinking about other fic ideas. Oops. So I've been so busy and I'll stop the bitching now... Anyway, I hope you still like me. And I hope you like this chapter!

Molly stepped into the sitting room and eyed Sherlock, who was still facing the window. With his back to her, she took the opportunity to square her shoulders and straighten her posture, bracing for a fight. He surprised her though by speaking first.

“I see that you noticed Wiggins was following you. I assure you, it is a necessary precaution and he will not interfere with your routine in any way.”

She stopped with her mouth open. _Well, how could she berate him now?_

“You could have at least informed me of his presence,” she said, attempting to sound miffed. It wasn’t very convincing.

Sherlock turned on his heel and studied her, a smirk lighting up his features. Behind her, the boys began the ascent up the second flight of stairs with her desk while one carried her groceries in and began placing them in the fridge. She hoped he was careful not to put them next to the body parts..

“I wanted to see how long it took you. You should be more observant of your surroundings Miss Hooper,” he chided her gently. Her eyes narrowed at him as the humor slid from his face, replaced by an expression she couldn’t name. Was it nervousness?

“I uhm, took the liberty of making a couple changes to your living quarters while you were out,” he said carefully, his eyes fixed on a point near her feet. Molly sighed.

“What were you doing in my room?” she snapped, her anger at his invasion of her privacy overriding her curiosity as to what he had done. He was being entirely too overbearing for an employer, even under the circumstances. She heard the tell-tale signs of the boys escaping through the door of the flat behind her, and fight back a smile at the thought of them running from the domestic that was currently taking place.

His eyes flitted up to meet hers when she let a chuckle slip out, then dropped them back down when she frowned in his direction, letting him know she wasn’t laughing at him.

“I would say it won’t happen again, but that’s most likely a lie, so I won’t disrespect you by uttering it.” Sherlock abruptly stalked past her, through the kitchen and into his room, slamming the door behind him.

Molly sighed again and headed up to her room to see the damage. She was pleasantly surprised when she opened the door to see floating shelves placed all along the wall above her desk and her book neatly arranged on them. Upon closer inspection, she realized that they were ordered by subject then alphabetically by title. The books she needed for class were stacked neatly in the space next to where her desk now sat.

She smiled ruefully to herself, looking back over her shoulder, towards where Sherlock had shut himself up. He was an insufferable git, but he had done something kind for her. She wondered what his motivation was.

Crossing the room, Molly picked up her textbooks and arranged them on top of her new desk, taking a moment to admire the gorgeous piece of furniture.

Molly let out a groan of frustration when she realized that she’d forgotten to eat in her haste to return to the flat, but decided she wasn’t hungry enough to go out again that evening. She undressed, putting on a new set of knickers and a loose tee shirt. She tied her long hair up into a messy bun and climbed under the covers, not caring it was still early. She really needed to sleep but her mind kept going back to the confusing, frustrating man downstairs. Specifically, to the way he’d held her pressed against his body before she left for the afternoon.

She breathed deeply, remembering his scent, the feel of his fingers grazing the skin of her chin as he pulled her head up to look into her eyes.

She shuddered, arousal pulsing through her veins and half sat up, eyeing her closed door, with suspicion. She hadn’t heard any moment in the flat since he’d slammed the door of his bedroom, so she assumed she was safe. After a moment she flopped back down and wiggled out of her knickers, kicking them off, and let her hands snake down her body to her already moist sex.

Her eyes slipped closed and she imagined those long musician’s fingers (she’d seen a violin downstairs, hadn’t she?) exploring her, rubbing just so against her overheated flesh, driving her closer to the edge of ecstasy.

She worked her clit with the first two fingers of her right hand, slipping first one, then two fingers of her left hand into her soaked cunt after a moment. God, she was so turned on just thinking about him and how he’d felt against her small frame.

Her fingers moved faster and small moans escaped her, until she finally climaxed, a single, high pitched squeal escaping her before she clamped her mouth shut and rode out the waves of her orgasm.

When it ended, she relaxed into the mattress after replacing her knickers, boneless and promptly passed out for the night.

\---------------------------------------

Sherlock heard her collapse into bed as he was halfway up the stairs. He stood outside her door for a couple minutes, torn with indecision.

On the one hand, he wanted to find out whether she’d liked what he did for her. He wanted her approval and it was a scary thought, considering he spent the majority of his time actively attempting to piss people off. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure it was such a good idea to be alone in a bedroom with her. His self-control was usually fantastic, but with her, he wasn’t so sure.

His brow furrowed as he remembered the only other woman who’d mattered to him and searched for memories of such strong reactions to her. Oddly, he couldn’t pinpoint a time when he’d felt so out of control when he’d been with her. The Woman. The woman who’d cruelly been taken from him because of his lack of self-control.

There it was, the evidence of the havoc his lack of self-control could wreak. He sighed and turned around.

Just as he started back down the stairs, his sensitive ears caught a tiny whimper coming from Molly’s bedroom.

He froze, and turned back around.

_She isn’t. She is._

His mouth quirked up in amusement, then back down as he realized that her activities were having a definite effect on him.

_I should go. I should really go._

He didn’t. Sherlock rested against the wall next to her door, sliding down it slowly, listening for her soft gasps. He adjusted his suddenly hard cock in his trousers, not daring to let his hand linger any longer than necessary.

He was warring with himself. The rational portion of his mind said that he shouldn’t get any closer to her than he already was, but the other side of him longed for her touch, to hear her scream his name in orgasmic bliss.

He quickly shut down that part of his brain, ignoring the growl of anger inside of him at being denied what it so desired.

Sherlock stood and quickly made his way back to his own room, pulling his trousers and pants off in a frenzy before sinking onto his bed and running his hand over his prick, his mind conjuring up images of Molly panting above him, their hips moving together. He came suddenly, the ferocity of his orgasm surprising him.

He sighed, wondering what the hell was wrong with him and decided he needed to get his mind off of the petite woman for a while.

He cleaned up and changed clothes, grabbing his coat from the peg in the sitting room. He smiled up at the staircase. She’d never know he was gone.

\---------------------------

Several hours later, Molly was startled awake by the vibrating of her phone. She sleepily thumbed the call button and pressed it to her ear, mumbling a hello.

Her eyes snapped open when a deep baritone voice greeted her.

“Hi Molly, let’s play a game. Tell me, hypothetically of course, how one would treat a bullet wound to the abdomen.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love hearing what you think about my fics, so leave me a comment if you feel like it!


	11. How to Heal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter unbetaed so sorry for any mistakes.

Molly sat bolt upright in bed, her eyes wide with shock.

“I swear Sherlock, if I find you downstairs I’m going to slap you silly for scaring me!” she shrieked, jumping out of bed and rushing out of her room, not even bothering to put clothes on. Her bare legs registered the cool air, breaking out into chill bumps, but Molly paid no attention. She clutched the phone to her ear, and felt sick to her stomach when she heard a wet cough, one that obviously contained blood.

She skidded to a halt in the kitchen, knowing that she’d find Sherlock’s room empty. She turned around helplessly, shouting for him to tell her where he was while she rummaged through cabinets, searching for the first aid kit. Sherlock coughed again, but his voice was steady when he replied.

“Molly, calm down. The kit is in the cabinet above the refrigerator, it’s fully stocked, bring it with you.” He paused to let her scramble onto the counter and reach into the high cabinet to pull out the kit.

“Got it?” he confirmed, and she nodded frantically before remembering that he couldn’t see her.

“Yes, yes, I’ve got it, where are you?” she ran towards the door, then looked down at herself, realizing that she was half dressed, in only her sleepwear which consisted of a loose tee and a pair of knickers. No bra, no trousers. She glanced around the sitting room desperately, looking for something to cover up with. Her eyes landed on one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns, a deep maroon one, that had been carelessly tossed over the back of his chair. Molly snatched it up and held her phone between her teeth while she slipped her arms through the much too long sleeves, juggling the first aid kit in the process. She cinched it around her and grabbed up her keys before flying down the stairs and out onto the street, forgetting to slip on her shoes.

“Alright where am I going, Sherlock?” she yelled into the phone, looking wildly in both directions.

“Two blocks south, then a right turn. Four more blocks then a left. Go through the side alley and I’m four blocks east of there.”

Molly nodded again, and dropped the phone into her pocket, still in call, taking off down the street at a sprint. She crossed the street after two blocks, not stopping, just weaving through the late night traffic. Her bare feet were aching, but her agitated mind didn’t register the pain, just as her lungs and throat didn’t recognize the burning sensation of the cold air being forced in and out of her body rapidly.

Molly was vaguely glad she’d been good at track in school by the sixth block. The blood was pumping through her veins as she flew across the sidewalks, dodging the few people who were still out at the late hour.

She almost missed him, hidden in the shadows of a side street but he called out as she passed and she turned quickly, shredding the skin of the side of her foot on the rough concrete. Her breathing was heavy as she knelt down next to Sherlock, visually checking him over, before reaching to pull his hand away from his stomach.

“How the,” she panted, “hell did this happen?” Molly was furious that he was out of the house, that he’d gotten himself shot, that he’d caused her to run mostly naked through the late night streets of London.

Sherlock merely stared at her and motioned to the first aid kit, which Molly opened quickly, grabbing up a roll of gauze and looking down at his wound. She examined it silently for a moment. There was quite a bit of blood, but the wound didn’t look very serious. Her brow furrowed in confusion.

“Sherlock? This looks like it was done a week ago.”

\-------------------------------

Sherlock cringed. He knew that Molly wouldn’t be fooled, but he’d hoped she wouldn’t catch on quite so quickly. He was silent for a moment, thinking of how he would answer her, and occupied himself by taking hold of her hand clutching the gauze and pressing it to his abdomen.

Her pulse was quick beneath his fingers and he wondered if it was from her sprint or because of their close proximity. He blew out a labored breath, noting that he was feeling better already and decided he’d be able to return to the flat in around half an hour.

“Yes Molly, I heal quickly,” he said finally, not looking at her.

“You heal quickly?” Molly repeated incredulously, looking back and forth from his face to his hand still holding hers against his wound. The bleeding was lessening and he could practically see the gears of her mind turning.

Sherlock wondered if this was how other people felt when looking at him. It was fascinating watching her eyes unconsciously flit back and forth as she called up information and compared it to what she was seeing, cataloguing what was out of sync with her knowledge of wounds and healing rates.

His fingers were still on her pulse and he smiled to himself, realizing that it hadn’t slowed.

_Not just the run then._

His smile turned to a frown as he thought of the consequences of her seeing him like this, of her seeing just how fast he healed.

He’d have to convince her that it had been a dream. Or at least treat the situation as one and refuse to acknowledge it as anything but. Hopefully she’d let the matter drop if he made her sound foolish. He felt a pang of guilt at the idea of making her sound like an idiot when she was really right, but knew there was nothing for it. She couldn’t know his secret. Not yet. He wouldn’t risk putting her in more danger than she was already in just by being a resident of 221B Baker Street.

He finally let go of her wrist and made to get up. Molly grabbed his shoulders with both hands and tried to push him back down, exclaiming that he needed an ambulance. Sherlock smirked and brushed her off, getting to his feet and looking down at his stomach.

He was no longer bleeding and when his fingers probed the area, he found the wound almost completely closed. He congratulated himself mentally, he’d never healed quite this quickly before. He was getting stronger.

Sherlock looked up concerned when Molly’s teeth began to chatter. It was then he finally took note of what she was wearing.

He was incapable of speech for a moment. Her small frame was swallowed up by his dressing gown and the tie was coming loose, giving him a tantalizing view of a bare leg with a strip of lacy purple knickers crossing the hipbone and the soft cotton of a tee shirt falling across her midriff. He sucked in a deep breath, clamping down on the urge to push her against the cold brick wall behind him and claim her for his own.

Without thinking, he blurted out, “Did you run around London in the dead of night wearing only a shirt and some knickers?”

He immediately regretted asking as Molly’s faced burned and she pulled his dressing tighter around her slim frame. He hadn’t meant it to be so judgmental.

“I did. I was asleep Mr. Holmes, you’re lucky I was wearing anything at all!”

As soon as the words left her lips Molly realized what she’d implied and flushed a bright crimson, discernable even in the dimness of the alleyway.

Sherlock merely sighed. He was back to Mr. Holmes. Oh well, it was probably for the best. He slipped off his heavy coat and settled it around Molly’s shoulders before assessing the damage to his shirt. It was ruined. He mentally shrugged. He’d have Mrs. Hudson dispose of it in the morning.

“We need to get back to the flat, Miss Hooper,” he said, running through maps in his head. He headed off down the alley but stopped again abruptly when the sound of her bare feet hitting the pavement reached his ears. He turned back to her, instantly furious. The clothes were one thing, at least she’d thought to put on his dressing gown. But barefoot? She was going to kill herself if she didn’t think before acting.

He was uncomfortable with how true the same statement was for his own impulsiveness.

“Miss Hooper, why are you barefoot?” he asked, keeping his voice as steady as possible. He was angry, so angry that she hadn’t a thought to her own well-being. Dammit, he shouldn’t have called her. He wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been bleeding so much.

His eyes flitted to her feet and instantly he noticed the blood from the skinned places. He closed his eyes for a moment and ordered her to sit. She protested that she was fine, but he wasn’t about to let her walk home in that condition. He gently but firmly pressed on her shoulder, pushing her to the pavement. He took the first aid kit from her and took out the unused gauze, carefully cleaning both feet before wrapping them.

It was going to be harder to convince her that this all was a dream.

He reached for a bottle of paracetamol, but stopped, and grabbed a small syringe instead. He arranged himself more to her side and grabbed her upper arm, under the pretense of helping her up. He slipped the thin needle into her, grimacing as he did it. It was small enough to not cause pain, merely a pinch, but Sherlock still felt a tinge of guilt.

He caught her the second she fell, cushioning her head as it hit the pavement.

Sherlock checked her vital signs, and when he was satisfied that the sedative had no ill effect on her, he scooped Molly up in his arms along with the kit and set off back towards Baker Street.


	12. Not So Hot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for taking so long to update. I feel terrible. I do have a fantastic excuse though, as I have my wisdom teeth taken out and I'm just now getting back into things. So sorry dears! Oh and this is unbetaed so any issues are mine alone.

Molly’s eyes fluttered open slowly, the light streaming in from her window momentarily blinding her. It was bright and sunny, and in complete contrast to Molly’s mood. She closed her eyes again, trying to still the pounding in her head, and groaned.

Her eyes flew open again as memories from the previous night bubbled to the surface of her groggy mind. Everything was hazy, but she could recall snippets conversation and overall, the pressing need to find Sherlock and treat his wound.

Molly stumbled out of the bed, her legs not fully supporting her, and cursed as her knees hit the floor. Her feet burned and she blearily realized that they were wrapped in bandages. The white gauze of her canopy was tangled around her somehow and ripped as she fell.

_Why the hell?_

Not one to give up, she braced one hand against the rug and the other on her bed, and struggled back up, stumbling to the door, leaning against every available surface. The staircase, however, was too much to manage and she fell headlong down it, making quite a bit of racquet and managing to knock herself out on the way down.

\--------------------------------

Sherlock was in the middle of a sentence, describing his attacker to Lestrade and John, his best friend and former flat mate who was just back from vacation, when he heard Molly’s door open. His eyes widened a second later when the unmistakable crash of a body on the stairs met his ears.

In an instant he was up, sprinting across the room to the stairs, where he gathered up her small frame, still scandalously clad, in his arms. He called for John, who’d followed him, along with the DI, to get the medical kit before realizing he’d left it in Molly’s room when he’d deposited her there the night before.

_Damn it all._

He rushed up the stairs with the unconscious girl in his arms, John and Lestrade close on his heels.

“John grab that kit,” Sherlock pointed to the box sitting on Molly’s new desk, “and check her. I think she’s just bumped her head but better to be sure.”

John obeyed instantly, but the look he gave his friend said fathoms about the inevitable conversation they would have about the situation.

“Lestrade you’re not needed, get out.” Sherlock frowned and attempted to cover Molly’s petite body, snatching up a blanket and draping it over her, shielding her almost from neck to foot.

“Like bloody hell I will,” Lestrade responded, moving further into the room and picking up one of Molly’s bandaged feet to examine more closely. Sherlock sighed as the detective inspector unwrapped the bandage and whistled between his teeth at the shredded skin.

“How’d this happen?” he asked, an angry note in his voice as he questioned the silent man perched at the foot of Molly’s bed.

John raised a brow at the two as he examined Molly, before he too, glanced at Sherlock in fury.

“She’s been drugged. Sherlock? Did you sedate her?” he exclaimed, turning on his friend, a wrathful expression on his face.

Sherlock swallowed slightly, his concern for Molly warring with his desire to bat their accusations away with a witty comment and retreat to his room until they were gone. Oddly, his concern won out.

“Yes, she was sedated.” He cleared his throat. “Last night.”

“Did you sedate her so she wouldn’t hear you go out?”

“And what about these wounds on her feet? They look like pavement burn!”

John and Lestrade spoke at the same time, both of them furious with their friend.

“She’s alright?” Sherlock asked of John, who nodded, tight-lipped.

“She’s fine. A bump on the head is all, she’ll come ‘round soon, though not as soon as she would’ve if she hadn’t been drugged prior. Care to explain?”

Sherlock nodded sullenly and stood, glancing down at his assistant’s still form once more.

“Downstairs.”

He retreated from the room and led the way back down the stairs, the three men trooping into the sitting room once more.

“Last night, when I was injured, I was losing a lot of blood, and I might’ve,” he paused, licking his lips, “called a certain young woman to bring me a first aid kit,” he finished quickly, sinking back into his chair, hiding from the barrage of anger soon to be directed his way.

“What the bloody?” Lestrade trailed off, walking away in exasperation to lightly beat his head against the doorframe.

John merely stared at his best friend, waiting for him to continue.

Sherlock huffed a sigh, realizing he wasn’t going to get off without telling the whole story, and rolled his eyes.

“I called her, she came, I had to convince her it didn’t happen when she saw the rate at which I healed and sedated her, end of story. Oh, and she tore her foot on the pavement running.”

John opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He thought for a moment, then opened it again.

“Sherlock? She was barefoot?” Sherlock hummed in affirmation, dreading where John’s thought process was leading him. “She was also, uhm, wearing the same clothes that she is now?”

“With the addition of my dressing gown, yes, John,” Sherlock replied, his voice a sullen growl.

Lestrade’s eyes flitted up to the ceiling and Sherlock’s narrowed in turn.

“Not that it’s important,” he murmured, half under his breath.

Lestrade walked back over to the other two.

“Wait, so you’re telling me that you won’t tell her anything, yet you’re calling her to patch you up at all hours of the night, when you shouldn’t have been out there in the first place, knowing she’s clever and will see right through your shoddy excuse of healing rapidly that you tried to use on me, and you then drug her to try to convince her that it’s all a dream?!” His voice escalated through his tirade, ending in a near shout.

“Ooo, inspector, you are quite loud,” a feminine voice called from the doorway.

An older woman, balancing a tray of tea and biscuits appeared in the room, clucking at the disarray. Sherlock smothered a smile at his land lady’s impeccable timing. If he had to bet, she’d been waiting for just such a moment to pop in a relieve some of the building tension.

“Did I hear someone fall earlier? Oh, I haven’t been around for days and look at this place, Sherlock. Such a mess. You’ll be glad to hear my sister in Brighton is doing well,” she chattered on, placing the tray on a free spot of the coffee table.

“Well don’t let it get cold boys,” she chided, before hurrying back out of the room, nattering to herself about the state of the flat whenever she took a little time to go visiting.

“Thank you, Ms. Hudson,” called John, hopping up to fix himself a cuppa. Lestrade joined him, snatching up a biscuit. Sherlock sighed.

_So easily distracted. What it must be like in their minds, so disorderly, so misused._

“Sherlock,” John called. “Sherlock? You’ve got to tell her the truth, mate.” He nodded his head decisively and Lestrade joined in.

“You tell her or we will,” the detective inspector added, looking grim as he bit into his biscuit.

Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh. “Ah, oh well, alright.”

He leapt up from his chair and grabbed his violin, beginning to play discordant notes, which everyone knew was his not so subtle cue to get out of his presence. Lestrade took his cue, heading out of the flat with a handful of biscuits, but John openly stared at Sherlock until he gave up.

The man HAD lived with the impossible detective for quite some time, and was immune to his more blatant mannerisms.

“So, tell me,” John said, settling back into his chair.

Sherlock’s head whipped around and he sent a glare in his friend’s direction.

“Tell you what?” he inquired disdainfully.

“You know what. Tell me about her,” came the reply, as John tried and failed to hide his amused expression behind his cuppa.

Sherlock let out a frustrated growl, earning his a baleful look from his former flat mate, and flopped back into his chair.

“Medical student, roped into being my assistant my Mycroft, performed an autopsy, not bad work, helped out when I was shot,” he rapidly fired off, hardly blinking.

“And,” prompted John.

“And what?”

“And I haven’t seen you take interest in a woman since-” John started, but Sherlock cut him off with a violent roar.

“I am NOT INTERESTED IN HER!” he shouted, curling his body in an attempt to control his sudden violent outburst. He breathed heavy for a moment, noting John’s tense body language, and calmed himself.

“I am not interested in Molly Hooper.”

“Right,” his friend replied, standing up. “I’ll let you think that one over. I’ll be back to check on her this afternoon.”

With that, John was gone, and Sherlock was left to his brooding thoughts.


	13. A Trigger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so sorry about this terribly long delay! I've had one thing after another, sickness, vacation, weddings, you name it, and I feel so bad I left you all hanging for such a long time!
> 
> Don't hate me, please!

Piercing blue eyes scrutinized the ceiling of the bedroom. The mattress groaned in protest as Sherlock shifted onto his side, throwing one last reproachful glare to the smooth plane above.

\-------------------------------

The weak, late afternoon rays of sunshine peeked in through the curtains, creeping across the silent room, failing to disturb the sleeping presence within. The wakeful party was likewise unbothered, his focus entirely on the still form curled up under the duvet. Her breathing was even and measured, the rise and fall of her chest a steady rhythm, reassuring her faithful guardian of the life within her otherwise unmoving frame.

Sherlock waited for long hours beside her bed, looking for signs that Molly was coming out of her deep sleep. His long legs were folded elegantly beneath him, his entire gangly form fitting neatly into the comfortable leather chair Molly had purchased to accompany her desk, as of yet unused by its new owner.

He watched, not daring to enter his mind palace to relieve his boredom, for fear that he would miss the signs of her waking and be caught in that position, his concern for the little woman seen, known. Sherlock couldn’t risk it.

His mind did wander though, as he faithfully waited for her to rouse from her long slumber. Sherlock would have been concerned at her lethargy if he hadn’t checked her over thoroughly, and reassured himself that she hadn’t suffered a concussion from her graceless flop down the staircase earlier in the day. No, her listlessness was entirely due to the drug that was working its slow way out of her system.

His traitorous mind kept returning to John’s previous remarks.

To Molly, and to Her.

The Woman.

He couldn’t help but think of them as the one that was and the one that is, though his chest ached at the distinction. Sherlock looked to Molly’s still form and his vivid imagination painted an entirely different reason for her lack of movement. His stomach rolled, and he tasted the sour tang of bile on his tongue.

Fear crept its way up his spine, spreading goose bumps over the pale flesh of his neck and arms, making the fine hairs stand to attention. What if it happened again? What if he was powerless yet again?

Sherlock cringed and took several deep breaths, his lungs suddenly devoid of oxygen. Unfolding his lanky frame from the chair, he leaned heavily on his legs, his hands pulling at his unruly curls. A flash of excruciating pain shot through his body and he gasped, his eyes widening as he realized what was happening and more white hot flashes of agony wracked his tense form. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock stumbled up, groaning loudly. He flung a last desperate look towards Molly, who he could have sworn opened her eyes for a brief second, before he stumbled across the room and down the stairs, biting his lips to stave off the roar of hurt until he could hold it in no longer.

\---------------------------------------

Molly slowly opened her eyes, relieved to find that the pounding in her head was gone. It was eerily quiet as she lay in the bed, only the faint sound of cars on the street below breaking the monotony of the late evening.

She lay on her side, staring at the chair next to the wall. It was in a different place than it had been the day before, but she wasn’t sure if she had moved it, or if Sherlock had. Her eyes flitted back and forth as she tried to recall exactly what had happened and why she was waking up at the end of the day instead of in the morning.

Her dreams had been so real, so tangible. She could have sworn that she’d run out in her (skimpy) sleep clothes to help Sherlock, who’d been shot and healed rapidly. Then she remembered nothing until a sharp pain in her head. After that, she had a brief memory of intense blue eyes and shaking. Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember the reason that Sherlock was shaking.

Oh well, it was just a dream.

Molly swung her feet out of the bed and yelped when they met the floor, a throbbing ache shooting through her feet and to her legs. She gaped down in surprise, her eyes widening as she examined the bandages on her feet.

Well, that was somewhat disturbing.

It took mere seconds for Molly to put it together. She wasn’t stupid, by a long shot, and as she examined her feet, the grogginess of her mind fell away leaving her with a lump in her throat and a soreness in her muscles. She groaned slightly, trying to wrap her head around the things she had seen the previous night. Her scientific brain analyzed each portion of her encounter with her employer, and came to the same, impossible fact each time. He’d healed before her very eyes, the wounds closing up as if she was watching a fast motion video of the process.

She knew the effects of drugs, and knew that she’d exhibited none of the signs of having any foreign substance in her system at the time of the incident; nothing that could affect her mind in such a way as to make her see the things she saw. No, Molly was certain that even though it seemed impossible, everything she remembered was the truth.

And if those impossible things actually happened, then Sherlock Holmes was absolutely not a normal human.

But if he wasn’t normal, then what was he?

Molly mind flitted back to the chippy and cold eyes accompanied by an even colder voice, warning her that her employer was dangerous. There was no longer a question in her mind as to the truth of that statement. The real question was, dangerous to whom?

Molly gingerly stepped out of bed, careful to distribute her weight evenly on her feet so as not to irritate her wounds. She briefly wondered what the extent of those wounds was, but decided not to check. Her focus was on finding suitable clothing (she cringed at the memory of Sherlock seeing her in her night clothes) and finding the man in question.

\-----------------------------------------

His hands trembled, giving way to fierce shuddering and a creeping cold that seemed to pierce his bones. Those same bones that were slowly rebuilding themselves he lay limp and whimpering on the soft mattress that now seemed to be made of stone. A sheen of sweat covered his brow as he lay across the duvet, sparing a dim and passing thought that at least he made it to the bed before his body gave out on him, and counted it as a victory; he was rarely able to discipline himself well enough to find a good spot when his body was in the throes of transformation.

He flexed his right hand, turning his head slightly to look at it as he did so. A low whine sounded through the heavy air in the room as the bones cracked and popped with the movement and Sherlock grimaced. It was painful, but he knew from experience that the sooner he began to move his body, the sooner the bones would harden back into their natural state.

The sting and accompanying pop of the joints in his legs made him take in a breath, hissing in pain as his ribs and spine protested the sudden influx of oxygen stretching his lungs.

_Another moment or two,_ he thought idly, and his glance fell on the hazed glass that divided his bedroom from the bath.

Sherlock almost always took a long, scalding bath after the events, as they left him cold and shaky, and the hot water centered him, making him feel human once again. In truth, it was the only reason he owned a tub, preferring the shower at all other times. He vaguely hoped it was clean, since it had been a long while since he’d last made use of it. He was almost positive it was, as Mrs. Hudson had the rather annoying habit of popping up to clean at any and all times of the day and night, usually muttering something about not being his housekeeper. He smiled, lips stretching over teeth that were too long and too sharp, making the expression drop quickly as he was reminded of his current situation.

He propped himself up on an elbow, doing his best to ignore the protest of his overworked muscles and bones, and cast a wary eye about his room. He’d torn it up pretty badly this time, and frowned at the thought of Mycroft mentioning his need for new furniture yet again. At least the bed was intact, with the exception of a set of deep scratches in the footboard, the dark finish of the wood blatantly scored in several places.

Rubbing a tired hand over his face, Sherlock let out a long sigh which cut off abruptly, as careful footsteps sounded outside his door.


	14. Questions Without Answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I left you so long without an update! Life got hectic and I got caught up in another of my fics. So sorry, I'll try not to leave you hanging like this in the future!

Sherlock pressed his lips together to stifle the groan of agony that threatened to escape his lips as he sat up far too quickly for his traumatized body to handle.

The footsteps stopped just on the other side of his door, and he held his breath, listening for any little sound.

“Mr. Holmes?” Molly’s voice was low and muffled by the door but he heard it clearly.

_Sherlock, it’s Sherlock dammit, do I look like Mycroft to you?_

“Mr. Holmes we need to talk.”

‘ _We need to talk._ ’

Never a good statement, no matter the circumstances. In this instance, it was quite a dangerous one, especially since Sherlock had absolutely no intention of explaining anything to Miss Molly Hooper.

“Mr. Holmes? Are you in there?” Molly voice continued as Sherlock groaned and flopped back down onto the bed, his muscles screaming in protest. “You can’t ignore me forever!”

“Go away,” he shouted back, his ribs cracking, causing him to suck in a tight, pained breath. “I’m sleeping.”

“No you aren’t, you’re talking!” came the reply through the door. Sherlock had to grin at that. She certainly was a feisty one, but then, he already knew that.

“Lestrade will be by to pick you in a half hour,” he bellowed, scooping up his phone to text a summons to the detective inspector. He’d have Lestrade distract her until he could pull himself back together enough to appear normal. Making up a story off the top of his head, Sherlock sent off the text and let himself relax, hearing Molly’s light steps travel away from his door.

His brow furrowed and he brought his phone up again to compose another text, which he sent to both Mycroft and John.

**Need replacement furniture. Bed intact. Medical attention also required.**

He knew they would both understand and fulfill their roles. As an afterthought, he sent another text, this one addressed to Wiggins.

**Doorknob. Identical to others in 221B but with lock and key. Urgent.**

Sherlock eyed his door, knowing that his orders to stay away from his quarters would deter his assistant only so long, and he wasn’t going to risk her walking in at an inopportune moment and catching him off guard, or worse. Mycroft couldn’t be trusted with the task of procuring him the replacement because he would make a copy of the key and John would probably tell him to just tell her the truth, something Sherlock had no intention of doing. At least not yet, perhaps not ever. It was safer for her not to know.

Checking the time, Sherlock rolled over, another groan escaping him, and surrendered to a deep sleep.

\------------------------------------

Molly was angry. She stood with her arms crossed, glaring at Mycroft, who met her stare head on with his frosty one.

Lestrade had picked her up with a flimsy excuse, something about getting her better acquainted with the labs at Bart’s, and then promptly lost her as a hand reached out of a black vehicle and dragged her inside. His panic stricken face turned to a cross between exasperation and amusement as he realized what had happened and he made no effort to retrieve her as the car pulled away, leaving him on the sidewalk.

“Mr. Holmes, if you don’t tell me what is going on, so help me I will quit!” She punctuated her defiance with a jaunty nod of her head. While she was still rather intimidated by Mycroft Holmes, British Government, that fear was, at the moment, outweighed by the fear of the unknown. And Sherlock Holmes most certainly fell into the category of ‘the unknown.’

“Perhaps I will fire you first, Miss Hooper,” replied Mycroft, raising a brow while still staring at her coldly.

“You- you-” Molly sputtered. She hadn’t really meant her threat and Mycroft had seen right through her, calling her bluff with ease. He knew she needed the job, no matter how much Sherlock Holmes infuriated her.

“Right.” Molly tapped her foot against the ground, giving a sigh. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll make him tell me himself.” She turned and stomped from the room, not caring how childish it looked. She was assistant to a child after all, so why not act like it.

Greg Lestrade stood outside the door, his back against the wall as he lazily blew cigarette smoke out of his lungs. The last rays of sun were giving way to night as he smoked and Molly shivered a bit in the damp air.

“Those things will kill you, you know,” Molly snapped as she marched past him, and he scrambled to put it out before jogging to catch up to her.

“Aww come on, Molly, don’t be like that. You know how they are,” he said apologetically. “It’s almost impossible to get around the Holmes brothers when they really want something. And Mycroft really wanted to talk to you.”

“So you let him kidnap me and take me to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city?!” Molly shouted against the wind, still stalking away from said warehouse and towards Greg’s police car. He jogged up next to her and opened the door for her to get in, which she did with a huff, folding her arms across her once more after buckling her safety belt.

“Come on, Mols,” Greg pleaded again as he got in his side and started up the vehicle. “You know it’s not my fault. Besides, while you were busy being a guest of the Queen,” he smirked at his little joke, “I got called to a crime scene. Got the body all laid out for you at Bart’s.”

Reluctantly, Molly nodded and let the pout leave her face.

“So what’s the story on this one?” she asked as they pulled away from the warehouse. Greg cleared his throat before launching into a description of the body Molly was to examine. She’d missed her classes for the day, but had been reassured by Mycroft that no harm was done and that he’d informed her professors that she would be absent. She would just pick up where she left off the following morning.

By the time they arrived at Bart’s Hospital, Molly was up to date on the body, and had seen pictures of the crime scene on Greg’s tablet. She already had a couple theories, based on the pictures and Greg’s descriptions, but knew she’d have a better handle on things when she got to examine the body.

Scrubbing in, she watched as Greg once again set up the camera so that Sherlock could watch. This time, however, Sherlock’s face popped up on the screen on their side, complete with volume. He snapped at Lestrade to give him the details to which Lestrade smirked and informed him that a packet of information was lying on his desk. Sherlock huffed and disappeared for a moment, coming back with a manila envelope which he pried open to study the contents inside. He scanned the papers quickly and nodded for Molly to begin the autopsy.

\----------------------------

Sherlock watched as Molly examined the body of the twenty-seven year old male thoroughly. She was muttering to herself, lost in her own world, and Sherlock noted with some satisfaction that she didn’t seem to even notice Lestrade brushing against her occasionally as he took photos of the body.

The body was drained of blood and was quite blue in hue, which Sherlock noted with some interest. It had been a while since he’d seen a vampire victim, and he was itching to see what conclusions Molly would draw from the evidence she was presented with. Something bothered him though, and he watched avidly as Molly worked, trying to put his finger on what felt wrong about the situation.

She was about halfway finished before Sherlock saw it on the screen. Molly stopped and looked down, seeing something on the lips. It had appeared at first glance to be lip gloss, which was a bit odd for a male, but neither Sherlock nor Molly had given it more than a passing thought. During the course of the autopsy, however, the substance seemed to double, perhaps even triple in volume, and the lips began to swell, a feat that should not be possible. She reached out with her gloved hand and rubbed it, intending to take a sample to determine what the sticky substance was, and gasped as she pulled her hand back. Molly yelped and stripped her glove off as it disintegrated, tossing it across the room to land conveniently in a sink. She watched in horror as it melted before her eyes, as if she’d touched acid. Lestrade shouted and Sherlock watched as Molly turned around snatching up a new glove. The body began to decay rapidly starting at the lips and spreading outwards, in the same style as the glove. Molly frantically tugged the replacement glove on and began taking samples, hurrying to beat the literal disintegration of the body.

Sherlock realized then that he was standing, leaning over his computer, shouting at Molly to get away from the body, shouting at Lestrade to carry her out if necessary, shouting for SOMEONE to listen to him. Apparently someone finally heard him as a hazmat team burst into the room, shouting for Molly to step away from the body, which was more dust and gooey liquid now, than anything resembling a human.

When Molly looked back to the computer, she saw a blank screen.

\------------------------------

Sherlock skidded to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, his path blocked by a sleek black car. He turned and sprinted down the sidewalk, headed in the direction of Bart’s. It was already ten in the evening so the pedestrians were thinning, but he still knocked a couple people over in his haste. The car easily kept pace with him, though he tried to shake it, and when his lungs gave out on him the rear window rolled down to reveal Mycroft inside.

“Going somewhere, little brother?” he asked in a bored voice as he examined his nails.

Sherlock panted, glaring at his brother, who simply rolled his eyes and beckoned him into the vehicle. Once Sherlock was ensconced within, he leaned back against his seat and murmured for the driver to continue on.

“You know you aren’t supposed to leave Baker Street,” he began, handing Sherlock a bottle of water. Sherlock stared icily at him as he took the proffered drink, downing it in one go.

“Obviously,” he replied when he had the breath to do so. “In the light of things, I’m choosing to ignore that ‘suggestion,’” he said, sarcasm dripping from the last word. He knew it wasn’t a suggestion as well as Mycroft did. It was an order, and one that he usually followed, knowing the consequences if he disobeyed.

“Sherlock, you know why you have to stay there. It’s for your own good,” Mycroft looked out the window. “As well as the good of the general public.” He glanced back at his brother, and Sherlock thought he saw a glimmer of pity. “After all, you know what happens when you lose control.”

Sherlock winced and turned quickly to his own window, nodding slightly. He knew well what happened when he lost control, and he had no intentions of letting it happen again. But he knew there was something big happening, and he’d be damned before he’d let anything happen to Molly Hooper.

“I’ll allow it this once. But Sherlock,” the older Holmes waited until Sherlock was facing him. “You know what happens when you let sentiment rule you. Don’t let it destroy you again.”


	15. Hello Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, an update! Woo!
> 
> Unbetaed so please forgive any and all mistakes!

Molly sat in a dark hospital room, perched on the edge of the bed, his lips perched as she swung her feet idly. She’d been unceremoniously dumped in the room just after the body she’d been autopsying had rapidly disintegrated before her very eyes. She sat watching the door, waiting for someone to come back for as they said they would. It had been over an hour according to the clock on the wall and she was starting to get antsy. Just as she decided to go in search of someone, shadows darkened the hall outside the room and she heard the unmistakable voice of Sherlock Holmes.

“Of course I’m fine, go away, I have to talk to Molly.”

“I think I’ll accompany you, Sherlock. Just to be sure.”

“You can’t be serious Geoff, she lives in my flat, if anything she’s safer here than there. At least where I am concerned.”

“That’s what worries me!”

“She’s far too young for you and not interested, besides, aren’t you still married to that cheating wife of yours?”

“Oi, you don’t have to be so mean about it mate! And no I’m not, she finally found one that would actually take her and moved out a couple of months ago. You’re slipping.”

“No, I just don’t care enough to find out. Now go away.”

The door shot open and Sherlock strode in, hands in the pockets of the gorgeous coat she’d admired on the peg at their flat. He looked good enough to eat and Molly flushed bright red at her wayward thoughts. She was supposed to be angry at him.

“Were you exposed?” he asked softly, and she stared at him, speechless with surprise at his concern.

“No, no,” she stuttered. “I managed to get the glove off in time.”

If she didn’t know better she’d say he sighed in relief before tentatively reaching out to catch her tiny hand in his and turn it over, examining it as if he didn’t trust her to be honest with him. He dropped it after a moment and turned his back to her, facing the door as he lit a cigarette. She frowned, they were in a hospital after all. Before she could protest though, he spoke.

“You have questions.”

She stared at his back, briefly entertaining the idea of glaring a hole through it, but sighed.

“Of course I have questions.”

He turned back to her, looking up at the ceiling as he took a long drag from his cigarette before exhaling and dropping his stare to her.

“Let’s start with the autopsy. Poison. Absorbed through the skin, activated kinetically. When you touched it, it reacted to you and started the decomposition process late. It should have happened before anyone found the body, reducing it to ash to make it virtually undetectable. An unsolved murder.”

Sherlock’s eyes shone as he explained to her. Molly had gotten most of it, drawing her own conclusions, but was fascinated by his rapid fire deductions. He was so brilliant, so passionate; Molly closed her mouth, realizing that she’d been gaping at him.

“Someone meant for me to find it. Too many coincidences, what do we say about coincidences? The universe is rarely so lazy. No, there’s a pattern, someone knows I’m investigating, someone who wants my attention. Someone, someone…”

He trailed off as Molly stared wide-eyed at him, realizing he’d been speaking aloud. She blinked once and cocked her head to the side.

“Is that what it’s like in your head all the time?”

He shrugged, straightening his coat. “Mostly,” he remarked, holding his hand out to her to help her off the bed.

“Now come on, I’m taking you back to Baker Street. I need to think and there’s too much to distract me here.”

“Sherlock,” Molly pulled on his hand to get his attention and he looked down in surprise, noticing that he’d linked his fingers with hers. He pulled away hastily, staring off into the distance with an uncomfortable look on his face.

“Sherlock, you have to tell me what happened last night.”

“You had a bad dream and fell down the stairs,” he answered quickly, turning away from her, only to feel her hand in the crook of his elbow. Molly looked up at him, searching his face.

“Don’t lie to me. I can’t trust you if you lie to me.”

“You won’t trust me if I tell you the truth,” he replied, his voice rough and tinged with something Molly couldn’t name. “Now come on, sooner you are back at Baker Street, the better.” He grasped her arm and attempted to guide her through the door.

Molly jerked her arm away and stepped through the door herself. She hurried down the hall towards the exit, trying to stay ahead of Sherlock. His legs were much longer than hers though, and he caught up with her in a few strides.

“I’ll call us a cab.”

“No, I have things to do, you go. I’ll meet you back at the flat,” Molly said, determined that he wouldn’t order her about more than necessary for her job. She’d be damned before she became someone’s servant.

“Molly,” his voice was a warning. “Don’t be difficult. I need to get to the bottom of this, and until I do, you will do as I say.”

“Like hell I will,” she retorted and burst through the doors of the hospital. She sprinted to the street and held out her hand for a taxi. It was late, and Molly was hungry and annoyed, her feet hurt and she was in a generally bad mood. When Sherlock reached her side, she climbed into a taxi and closed the door behind her, leaving him standing on the pavement. He looked at her for a moment, his lips pursed and eyes narrowed as he thought. Molly gave directions to her favorite restaurant, and watched him fade away as the taxi pulled away from the curb.

She sighed and settled into her seat when he made no move to follow her, and spent the ride pondering his odd behavior. He had seemed overly concerned about her, especially considering that he had to have known that she was unharmed.

She puzzled over it as she ate, dumpling soup, her favorite, wondering why he was so alarmed by the turn of events. True, it wasn’t every day that a body disintegrated in front of her, but Molly never doubted her own eyes and so accepted that it had happened and that was that. She did puzzle over the WAY it happened, but knew that Sherlock would figure it out.

Her brow furrowed as she contemplated the previous body she’d examined for her employer. She was only half joking when she’d said it was a werewolf. Though her logical mind dismissed the idea as foolish and superstitious, she couldn’t let go of it all together. She resolved to corner Sherlock and make him answer her questions the minute she walked into the flat.

With that in mind, Molly paid her bill and left the restaurant, shivering in the cool night air. She decided to walk back to Baker Street, simply because it was only a few blocks and it was almost impossible to catch a cab anyway. She pulled her jacket around her and set off, walking briskly. She was watching her feet, lost in thought, when she collided with another pedestrian. Molly looked up into the face of Jim, the man who’d warned her away from Sherlock days ago in chippy.

“Hullo, Mols,” he said, a delighted grin lighting up his face. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Molly smiled briefly at him and nodded. “Yes, it’s nice to see you, Jim. I’m just on my way home, it’s rather late.”

He checked his watch before offering her his arm. “Yes it is, isn’t it? A beautiful woman like you shouldn’t be walking the streets at this time of the night, allow me to escort you home.”

Molly remembered sprinting barefoot down the streets just the night before, but banished the thought from her mind as she smiled at the dark-eyed man before her.

“Oh that’s quite unnecessary Jim, I’m not far from home,” she said, edging past him. He reached out and caught her elbow, his smile still firmly in place, but his eyes held a dangerous glint as his hold on her tightened.

“I insist.”

Molly’s heart pounded as he dragged her along down the sidewalk, and she cursed the lack of other people about in the late hour. She wished she hadn’t been so petulant and had gone home with Sherlock when he’d asked, but she decided that it would do her no good to think about could haves and turned her attention to getting away from the man who held an iron grip on her arm.

She tried to jerk away as he turned down an alleyway, and began pulling her into it, but his hold on her was tight and Molly began to scream. She kicked and fought, trying in vain to escape his grasp, but stilled instantly when a loud growl sounded behind her.

Molly froze, staring terrified up at Jim, who was looking at a point behind her, his lips still stretched in a smile.

“Well, well,” he said, turning her to face the source of the growl.

“Sherlock Holmes, so good of you to join us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love reading your comments!


	16. Moriarty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just me, myself and my mistakes this time loves, please don't judge too harshly.

Sherlock was furious. His eyes narrowed as a low growl escaped from him at the sight of the man’s hands holding tightly to his Molly. He could see red welts forming on her arms from where she’d tried to pull away from her abductor; she’d undoubtedly have bruises from it.

She stood frozen as the man known as Jim gingerly released her, walking around her to put himself between them, but slightly to the side so he could see both at the same time. Sherlock quickly assessed Molly’s state before turning his full attention to the man. It was taking all his admittedly small amount of self-control to keep from lunging for the man’s throat.

“Judging by the look on our little pet’s face, I’d say you’ve got some explaining to do, Sherlock. Haven’t told her yet? You had better hope she’s in particularly forgiving mood.” Jim chuckled but his black eyes remained cold.

Sherlock drew up his body in much the same way he did while in his human form. He adopted a power stance, his legs apart, making himself seem larger and more intimidating, a tactic he often used to frighten criminals and, on occasion, witnesses. He couldn’t help but notice Molly gaping at him, and fought down a proud feeling as recognition bloomed in her gaze. Oh, she was a clever one.

He had known that she would recognize him. His wolf form was not really so different from his human one. He had long, scraggly fur of the same deep chocolate with red tints that his hair was. His aquamarine eyes were brighter than normal, taking on an eerie glow in the darkness of the alley, but still held flecks of amber. He was about the size of an English Mastiff but not nearly as stocky just as Sherlock was slim but powerful. He eyed the man, his lips curling back in a snarl, exposing his sharp canines.

“Uh uh,” Jim scolded gently, shaking his head and making a tutting noise. “Is that any way to treat your biggest fan?”

Sherlock froze, cocking his head to the side as he stared at the man, his brain making the connections at lightning speed. He blinked several times, trying to think where he’d heard that phrase before.

Sherlock tried desperately to quell the rising panic within him. He’d been on the receiving end of Moriarty’s interest before, though he’d never met the man. It appeared that was no longer the case. Sherlock felt more fear in that moment than he ever remembered feeling before. Though he couldn’t prove it, he was certain that the man in front of him was responsible for the case that led to Sherlock being bitten and his life spiraling out of control.

That same man was now standing between Sherlock and his Molly. The stakes were higher than he could have imagined and he didn’t know if he could stand to lose another time.

\-------------------------------

Molly couldn’t tear her eyes from the shape in front of her. She considered herself an open-minded person, accepting of any and all odd things, but this. This she didn’t know if she could just accept as fact and move on like nothing was wrong.

Funny, it was at once nothing like what she thought of when she pictured a werewolf, but it made perfect sense. Could hardly have a huge hulking werebeast tearing around the city. This looked like nothing more than a large dog unless you got a good look and knew that you were looking for something different. Molly vaguely wondered if it only made sense because she was losing her mind. She decided not to dwell on that thought.

She watched as Sherlock reacted to Jim’s words as if he recognized the phrase and Molly wondered if they had met before.

“Why don’t you return to your human form so we can speak man to man,” Jim continued, a sly smile curving his lips. “Oh,” he said, clapping a hand to his mouth in fake remorse, “Could it be that it still hurts you to transform? Not doing it enough, are you? Or, are you ashamed to do it in front of your lady love?”

Jim gestured to Molly and the wolf growled warningly.

“Bingo! I’ve got it!” the black eyed man shouted suddenly. “You’re afraid! You’ve lost control before, who’s to say you won’t again?”

The growl ceased once more and the wolf tensed, its body going rigid.

“Molly dear, it was so lovely to see you again,” Jim said, turning to where she still stood paralyzed, watching the scene unfold before her. “But I think this is your cue to run along home. Daddy needs to have an adult discussion with your boss.” He turned his back to her obviously expecting her to turn and run.

Something in his words made Molly stir where she’d previously been watching silently. She eyed him carefully, a protective feeling making her brave. She wouldn’t leave Sherlock, not when he’d come to her aid. She owed him that much, even if they exactly didn’t see eye to eye. Besides, he had some explaining to do and she wasn’t about to let him off the hook without it.

“If it’s all the same to you, Jim, I still need an escort,” she said, desperately hoping the quiver in her voice was undetectable.

He turned back to her, no doubt surprised by her bravery, and narrowed his eyes.

“Miss Hooper, I suggest you-”

He was cut off by a sharp yip from the wolf, and looked comically between the two before breaking into laughter.

“Oh you can’t be serious!” he said, wiping moisture from his eyes. “The werewolf and the mouse? He’ll eat you alive darling, no pun intended of course.” He stopped and grinned wickedly. “Though by the looks of him, that might be exactly what he wants,” he said, wiggling his brows suggestively.

Molly flushed scarlet. Her eyes flitted rapidly back and forth as she formulated a plan to get both herself and Sherlock away from the man in front of her. She took a deep breath, and blew it out, narrowing her eyes at Jim.

“Of course it’s what he wants,” Molly said, sauntering past Jim, who was watching her with a calculating expression. She exaggerated the sway of her hips and didn’t stop until she stood next to Sherlock who was back to growling at the man watching them. The steadiness of her hands showed none of her inner fear as she settled one down between the wolf’s shoulder blades. She felt the muscles tense under her hand, but the growls ceased, replaced by a high pitched whine. She wondered what he was thinking.

“Sherlock,” she cooed, “take me home, love.”

Jim’s brow furrowed, before a genuine smile lit up his face. He looked gleeful, and Molly wondered if she’d made a mistake going along with his assumption that she was involved with Sherlock in a greater capacity than just as his assistant. She wasn’t sure if he was right in his assumptions or not, but that wasn’t something to think about at the present.

“Oh Sherlock,” Jim said with a fond shake of his head. “You do know how to pick them. I was wrong about her. She’s no mouse, she’s every bit as much a woman as Irene is. I hope you can control yourself around this one though, it’d be a shame if you were to lose another toy. Though,” he smiled again, this time coldly, his dark eyes glittering with mischief. “Your loss is my gain.”

With that, Jim turned and sauntered out of the alley, doing a jaunty little dance step as he turned the corner and disappeared from view. Molly swallowed hard and gingerly lifted her hand from Sherlock, taking a step back as she did so.

Instantly, the wolf turned to face her.

“Sherlock?” she whispered, her voice shaky. Molly leaned back against the cool brick of the side of a building for support. The wolf cocked its head to the side, the high whine once again cutting through the silence of the alley.

She looked down at him for a long moment before straightening herself and breathing out slowly. She turned to walk out of the alley, but stopped dead as Jim sauntered back in, the cold smile firmly in place.

“Sorry loves, I’m soooo changeable.”

\-----------------------------

Sherlock felt panic searing through his veins as Moriarty rounded the corner, coming back into view. His heart sank as small red dots appeared on Molly’s torso, indicating that snipers had her in their sights.

Sherlock wavered between the desire to attack his enemy and his wish to protect Molly at all costs. He was saved from having to make a decision by the sounds of _Stayin’ Alive_ by the BeeGee’s cutting though the tense silence.

Moriarty looked down at his pocket incredulously and pulled out his phone, glancing at the display before looking back up to Molly and Sherlock.

“I’ve got to take this, you don’t mind?”

In other circumstances, Sherlock would have laughed at Molly’s sarcastic reply.

“Oh no, we’ll just wait here,” she said, rolling her eyes. He wondered how she was so calm with the snipers’ dots dancing across her chest.

Moriarty put the phone up to his ear and answered.

“Hello? What do you want, I’m busy… No, you know what. If you’re interrupting…” Suddenly he shouted, making Molly jump and Sherlock bristle and bare his teeth again.

“SAY THAT AGAIN! Say that again, and know that if you are lying to me, I will kill you so slowly you will think that I’m making a career of it.” He paused, cocking his head to the side, his gaze traveling to Molly as he listened to the phone. “Fine.”

He hung up and narrowed his eyes at Molly again, examining her as if she were a puzzle piece.

“Sorry,” he said, a lost look in his eyes as he turned around to leave once more. “Wrong day to die.” He clapped twice as he turned the corner and the sniper dots vanished. Sherlock watched carefully as Molly took a deep breath and glanced over at him.

“I think I need a drink,” she said, holding up her shaking hands before wearily heading in the direction of Baker Street, leaving Sherlock alone in the dark of the alley with his thoughts.


	17. The Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long, I've been having lots of personal issues. Thanks for your patience. Hope you like this chapter.

Sherlock stretched, feeling broken and exhausted. He rubbed at his eyes, blurry with sleep and sat up, not sparing a glance for his surroundings.

After following Molly back to Baker Street to make sure she made it safely, Sherlock had gone to one of his many bolt holes around the city to wait out the transformation. He didn’t want to take the risk of being in the house with the petite woman while he was in the throes of his transformation, knowing full well what he was capable of while going through the painful process.

He blinked and rolled over, climbing up to standing and dressed himself in one of the changes of clothes he kept for just such an occasion. Once ready, he left the nondescript house and made his way back to his flat, stopping just outside the door and frowning at the knocker, which was perfectly aligned. Heaving a sigh, Sherlock opened the door and made his way up the stairs, where he knew his brother awaited him.

\-------------------------------

“Ah, Miss Hooper,” Mycroft said as the weary girl made her way into the sitting room, dropping her bag with her textbooks inside on the floor before toeing off her shoes.

Sherlock and Mycroft had been having a staring match for the better part of the day, disagreeing, as usual.

“Why don’t you left her decide, brother mine?” Mycroft asked Sherlock, with a toothy smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Ask me what?” Molly replied, her eyes darting back and forth between the two men suspiciously. Sherlock’s lips quirked up at her obvious annoyance with Mycroft being in her chair. She plopped down on the couch, closing her eyes.

“Sherlock seems to think that you are amiable to continue living here and being his assistant even after the events of last night. I am here to inform you that if you wish to be relieved of said duties, I will pay you handsomely to go on your way, provided that you will be discreet about said happenings.”

Molly opened her eyes and turned her head towards Mycroft, her brow furrowing.

“Just like that?” she asked. “Scott free?”

Mycroft smiled again, shooting a triumphant glance at Sherlock.

“Of course, Miss Hooper.”

Molly was silent for a moment before sitting up.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes, but I’m needed here.”

Both Holmes brothers looked at her intently and Molly drew back a bit at their gaze, but maintained her head held high.

“I’m afraid I cannot accept your offer.”

Sherlock gave a quick, delighted grin that was gone before Molly was fully sure she’d seen it.

“There, Mycroft, now don’t you have a war to start or some other such tedious nonsense?” He stood and made shooing motions with his hands towards his brother, who also stood and made his way towards the door. He stopped in the doorway though and gave Molly an appraising glance.

“I hope your enemies underestimate you as much as I have, Miss Hooper,” he said, nodding to her as he left the flat.

Molly watched him go silently, then turned to Sherlock and shook a finger at him.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself. You and I need to talk.”

\---------------------------------

“Start from the beginning.”

“I was born just outside of London, in January of 1978,” Sherlock began, his facial expression serious. Molly threw a pillow at him from her position on the couch.

“You know what I meant, you git,” she admonished. He fought a smile, and failed to completely suppress it. She was gorgeous when outraged.

“I was on a case. Back then, I didn’t know that any of this existed. I mean, the supernatural. I thought everything was a simple puzzle to be solved. I was so wrong.” Shaking his head, he continued. “People are right to be afraid of the dark. I’ve seen what’s in it. Not everything is as tame as I am,” he said ruefully. “So I was investigating a series of murders, all the hallmarks of a serial killer, and I was excited. Serial killers are hard, you have to wait for them to make a mistake. Finally, he made one, and I went after him. Unfortunately, I got more than I bargained for.”

“He was a werewolf,” Molly interjected softly and Sherlock nodded.

“Yes, he was,” he agreed. “I was foolish and arrogant, and he drew me out so easily, as if he was waiting just for me.”

Molly sat watching him struggle through his story, feeling moisture threatening to well up in her eyes.

“I didn’t know how to control myself. I came home, and she was here.” Sherlock stopped and breathed deeply, his fists working the empty air, clenching and unclenching with suppressed pain. When he spoke again, it was a whisper. “The last thing I remember is my vision going black and when I came to, there was blood all over the flat, and no sign of her.”

It clicked. “That’s why Greg was so upset that I was here.”

Sherlock frowned. “We’re calling him Greg now, are we?”

Molly blushed before turning pensive once more.

“Who was she?” Molly asked, her voice low.

Sherlock glanced up at her briefly, and looked back down at his hands. “Her name was Irene, she was, I suppose, I thought I was in love with her. Now, I’m not so sure.”

Molly’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I thought I loved her. I’ve never loved anyone. She was fascinating, yes. I wanted her and I wanted to solve her puzzle. But I’m not sure that I loved her. Obsession is probably closer. It’s different from,” he stopped and looked up at Molly, staring at her intently. She gazed back silently, trying to read the myriad of expressions in his icy blue eyes.

“Nothing,” he finished lamely.

“So then what?” Molly asked, wanting to move away from the subject of Sherlock’s former paramour, not only because it was a sensitive subject, but because of the sick feeling of jealousy that churned in her stomach. She fought it down.

“Then Mycroft came. He gave me a choice. I could either remain here, imprisoned in my own home, or I could go out of the country on assignment for him. I’d rather die than do him any favours I don’t have to, so I chose jail.”

“You chose wisely,” Molly said, nodding pensively to herself.

He let out a bitter bark of laughter and leaned forward, gazing at her intensely.

“Who are you to say that to me?” he asked, his face cold. “You have no idea what my life has been like, Molly Hooper.” His fists clenched. “He said that it was for my own good, that I would be safer here, that I couldn’t hurt anyone here. I’m nothing but a glorified captive, held here and forced to do my brother’s bidding if I want any semblance of freedom. I have to wait for him to throw me a bone like I’m a fucking dog,” he said quietly, dangerously, and Molly couldn’t tear her eyes from his hands, which shook with his fury and shame.

“Sherlock,” she whispered, moving to clasp his hands in her smaller ones, kneeling at his feet to look up into his face. “You are nothing less than what you were before. Deny it all you want, but you are a good man.”

“Don’t make people into heroes, Molly,” he replied with a sigh. “Heroes don’t exist and even if they did, I certainly wouldn’t be one.”

“You don’t have to be a hero for me to believe in you,” she answered him, holding his gaze as he searched her face, looking at her like she was a puzzle that he couldn’t seem to solve. Molly found herself recklessly hoping that he never stopped looking at her like that, like she was fascinating and he was enthralled with her.

She sat back on her heels, reluctantly letting go of his hands, watching him examine his own, flexing them as if he’d forgotten what it was like to touch another person. She thought about what he’d said and picked the conversation back up.

“So that’s why you disappeared, and stopped solving cases. Because it wasn’t safe for you to leave this flat.”

Sherlock smiled. “Who said I stopped solving cases?”

Molly’s brow furrowed before it clicked. “Greg!”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and considered her thoughtfully.

“Yes, Lestrade and I worked together before the… incident, and he continued to consult me after. He’s a, good, man.”

Molly almost snorted at the look of distaste on his handsome face as he delivered the stilted compliment.

“I began to take more and more supernatural cases though, until I was exclusively solving them. I don’t know how it escaped my attention for so long considering the vast amount of them. The numbers are on the rise too. Someone, or something, is contributing greatly to the number of supernaturally related deaths in the past few months.”

“Do you think it has anything to do with Moriarty?” she asked hesitantly, hoping that the conclusion she had come to was wrong, but knowing it wasn’t.

“I think it has everything to do with him,” Sherlock said, frowning again. “I just need to figure out what he wants,” his gaze turned dark, “and what he is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come and play on tumblr. My url is liathwen-slays-dragons.


	18. Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it's taken me like a year and a day to update this fic. Please don't stone me.
> 
> Unbetaed, all mistakes are my own.

Molly sat cross legged in the chair facing Sherlock. He’d been in his mind palace for over an hour and she was growing tired. It was barely evening but she’d been having rather eventful days lately and it was catching up to her. She stood and stretched, making her way to the kitchen to make tea. She was almost finished, when Sherlock’s voice startled her.

“It would be safer for you if you left me,” he said quietly.

Molly turned to look at him as he leaned against the door frame, gazing at her intently. “I’m not afraid of Moriarty,” she replied, with a decisive nod. “I’m not going to run from this. He needs to be stopped and I can help you. You can’t do it alone and I won’t abandon you just because I would be safer if I did.”

Sherlock chuckled mirthlessly, shaking his head. “Not because of him, Molly. You’d be safer if you left me,” he took in a deep breath, “because I’m in love with you.”

Molly gaped at him, the capacity to speak leaving her for a moment. Unbidden, images flashed through her mind of her time with Sherlock.

She thought of his desperation to get to her when Moriarty had her in the alley. Of his voice, screaming through the computer for her to get away from the decaying body in the morgue. Of his examination of her hand afterwards. Of his vigil over her when she was sleeping off the sedative.

All those things pointed to one bare fact. Sherlock was telling the truth. He loved her.

And God help her, she loved him as well.

It was a long moment before she spoke. “I said I wasn’t afraid of Moriarty and I’m not afraid of love either,” she whispered, and Sherlock’s eyes widened and he slumped back as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He shook his head vigorously.

“You don’t understand. I’ll break you. One way or another I’ll hurt you and I couldn’t stand that. I can’t even touch you without fear of the animal inside me taking over. Love isn’t the same now, not for me. It’s not the same.” He shook his head again. “It’s consuming me, Molly. It’s all I think about. YOU are all I think about. I close my eyes and I see your face. Your smile, your laugh, the light in your eyes, it’s all there, etched into the walls of my mind palace, mocking me as I try to remain detached.”

Molly stood watching him as he struggled to find the right words. She wanted nothing more than to take him into her arms and soothe him, to kiss away his fears but she waited as he opened his mouth to speak again. Sherlock gestured helplessly into the air in front of him as he tried to explain.

“The wolf, he is me, but he isn’t. He has a will of his own. If you accept me, if you let me touch you, kiss you,” he licked his lips, still gazing at her hungrily, “make love to you, the wolf inside me will want to mark you, to take you as mine. Not only would it be painful, but it’s unfair to you, binding us together for as long as we live. Even if one of us were to die, the one who remained would still be bound, and would live in misery, always missing the other. Not only that, but it would make you a target to everyone who wants to hurt me while also making me more reckless, desperate to defend you. I can’t allow that, Molly, it’s insanity. It’s… I’m nothing more than an animal.”

Molly’s jaw clenched and she set the cup she was holding down onto the counter. Even though her rational mind was screaming at her to slow down, to consider what he said, a feral desire rose in her to belong to him. “You are NOT an animal,” she said, forcefully. You are not. You are good. You are a good man.” Sherlock stared, wide eyed as she approached him, stopping only when she stood directly in front of him. She stood up on her tip toes, her face mere inches from his. “Why would I be afraid of being bound to a good man?” she whispered, looking up at him.

\------------------------

Sherlock’s hands shook as he tried to force himself not to touch the small woman so close to him.

_She wants you, I can smell her desire for you. Take her. We can protect her better if she belongs to us._

“I, I can’t,” he said, speaking both to her and to the wolf. His voice wavered though, the desire to reach out and wrap her in his arms. He wanted to press her against the wall and kiss the breath out of her, to take her to bed and mark her, brand her as his own, cover her in his scent and lose himself inside her until they no longer knew where one ended and the other began.

But he couldn’t allow himself to lose control like that. She was too precious to him, and he couldn’t stand to lose her, even if that meant never really having her. Not in the way he so coveted.

He sighed, defeated, and pulled away from her, ignoring her rapid breathing and dilated eyes. His body literally shook at the loss of her warmth. She didn’t know what he was capable of, and it was better if she never did. He wouldn’t fail her that way. Better if she finally gave up on him and left than he hurt her.

“Molly, you don’t know what you are saying,” he stated, and turned to walk to him room, closing and locking the door firmly behind him.

\---------------------------

Sherlock lay across his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Everything he craved, needed, was Molly. He could still smell her scent, light and sweet and uniquely her. He clenched his fists, willing the shaking in his hands to stop. He had to be strong, if not for his sake, for hers.

\---------------------------

Molly didn’t see Sherlock again that night nor the following morning. When she woke, and stumbled bleary eyed into the kitchen, she did find fresh coffee and a scone on the counter. She glanced towards his door, but it remained firmly shut. Taking a sip from the mug, she smiled. It was perfect, exactly as she took it. She wondered how he knew, as she couldn’t remember drinking coffee in front of him.

She finished her breakfast and gathered her books, ready to leave for her classes. Before leaving that flat though, she tiptoed to Sherlock’s door and listened intently. Not hearing any sound, she opted to whisper her goodbyes, in case he was sleeping.

“Goodbye, Sherlock. I,” she paused, licking her lips nervously. “Thank you for breakfast.”

\-----------------------------

Sherlock listened to her leave, and texted John as soon as he heard the door shut.

He was still sprawled across his bed twenty minutes later when John let himself into the flat, and then into Sherlock’s room via a spare key. The army doctor stared at him silently before gingerly sitting down on the side of the bed.

“You look like hell, mate,” he said conversationally. “Have a transformation last night? Your room looks good, you must be getting better at it.”

Sherlock opened one eye and groaned. “Worse,” he whined. “I told Molly that I love her.”

John very nearly fell off the bed, making an undignified squawk as he caught himself.

“YOU DID WHAT?!” he shouted, leaping to his feet to turn on his best friend. “Sherlock what the bloody hell? You told me, what yesterday? Two days ago? That you weren’t interested in her! Now you’re telling me that you confessed your undying love to her? You cock!”

Sherlock lay silently taking the abuse, his hands covering his face as John subsided. After a moment, the blond man spoke again.

“So what now? Are you gonna, you know, date? Or something?”

Sherlock groaned again, louder, and sat up.

“John, I can’t. I’ve told you what happens, I told you as soon as I knew that’s what would happen if I was ever to meet the right person. I thought that I was fine alone though. Especially never leaving the flat. How the hell did Mycroft manage to pick the one person on Earth who would end up being my mate?” he whined.

John shook his head. “I don’t know, Sherlock. I honestly don’t know.”

Sherlock sighed heavily and looked up at his friend. “Moriarty can’t find out what she means to me. He wouldn’t hesitate to harm her at the slightest opportunity.”

John hummed in agreement, looking thoughtful. “So, how are you gonna stop yourself from, you know.”

Sherlock gave him a withering glance and replied sarcastically, “I’m open to suggestions.”

“Lots of cold showers,” John quipped, and they stared at each other for a long moment before both breaking into laughter, their problems, for the moment, forgotten.


	19. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the long wait, I was having major writer's block with this fic. Unbetaed so any mistakes are my own. Sorry about that.

Molly snapped on the gloves, wincing as the rubber contacted the sensitive skin of her wrist harshly. Her mind was a million miles away, but she had a task to complete, and quite possibly her career was riding on it. She looked to the other side of the room, where there stood five people. One nodded, and smiled encouragingly and Molly blew out a long breath, turning her attention to the body laid out in front of her.

\-------------------

Sherlock frowned at the tiny camera in front of him.

“Let me see her,” he growled at it, scowling. “I know you’re blocking my access. I just want to observe.”

He sighed, going back to his laptop and seating himself in front of it again. He mumbled to himself as he worked, a mixture of reminders, curse words and not-so-flattering names for his brother. Molly had an exam that morning, an autopsy to be performed in front of several of her professors, and he had wanted to watch via security camera. When he’d attempted to hack the normally lax security system however, he’d been blocked by a new shield, and had instantly whirled on the tiny camera he knew was hidden in his flat and complained to Mycroft about the lack of visual.

He sighed, silently admitting defeat, and leaned back in his chair, glancing to the other chair across the room. John was still there, occupying his old spot as he had the day off from his job at the clinic and Mary had gone out with a group of her friends for the day. Mrs. Hudson had just left after dropping off a tray of tea and biscuits. She would have stayed longer to chat with her former tenant, had Sherlock not leapt to his feet cursing when he discovered the block. She’d hurried downstairs after that particular outburst.

“So you’re certain you can’t do this whole… bonding… thing?” John asked hesitantly, a biscuit in his hand, paused in midair in front of his mouth. “I mean, I know you’re always going on about not needing anyone but you have to admit that you do get attached when you let yourself. I mean, you’re my best friend and then there’s Lestrade even though you insist on not remembering his first name, and of course you treat Mrs. Hudson with distain sometimes but she’s really a mother figure for you. And Mycroft… well maybe not him.”

“Are you going to continue to prattle on about nonsense all day?” Sherlock drawled, sounding more bored than annoyed.

“Hey now,” John warned. “I’ll leave you here to your boredom if you aren’t careful.”

Sherlock sighed heavily and sat up. “As long as I have self-control, I will fight the urge to bond with Molly. Even being confined to this house, I lead a dangerous life, I think Moriarty is proof enough of that. I wouldn’t willingly subject her to that, nor to my,” he hesitated, licking his lips anxiously. “Well, to my more… sudden… mood swings,” he finished lamely.

John looked at him with something akin to pity in his eyes. “I know, Sherlock. But it’s been a long time since… Irene… and well I think that you owe it to yourself and to Molly to give whatever it is between you two a chance.”

“But what if I hurt her?” Sherlock whispered, and John wondered if he was meant to hear it. He answered anyway.

“You’re going to hurt her Sherlock,” the blond man said matter-of-factly. “We’re idiots when it comes to love. You and me both apparently,” he added in a low voice. He shook it off though and smiled at his best friend. “But the worse choice is to never try.”

Sherlock was silent, his hands pressed to his mouth pensively. After a while, he sighed and glanced back at John, who had been eating his biscuits quietly, waiting for Sherlock to decide.

“You really think that I won’t destroy her?” Sherlock asked, his voice small and vulnerable.

John smiled. “Nah, she’s strong and I really think you love her. That, if nothing else, makes it worth it.”

Sherlock exhaled again, and nodded once, acknowledging John’s answer, then fell silent again.

John sat there for a while, before finally getting up the courage to ask a question he’d wanted to voice for years.

“Sherlock, what happened that night? I mean with, with Irene you turning and all that. You never have said.”

\-------------------------

_“Sherlock wait for me!” John yelled down the street as Sherlock disappeared around a dark corner._

_The detective didn’t slow, pushing his physical limits as he chased the suspect of a rash of murders unlike any he’d ever seen. His blood was pumping, the adrenaline racing through his veins. He grinned, his eyes narrowing as he realized the man had inadvertently run into a dead end. The dim light of the alleyway gave way and Sherlock saw him standing there, looking back as Sherlock sprinted up to him, intending to take him out with a solid punch to the jaw._

_There was a sudden noise, and the man moved faster than Sherlock could blink. Then, there was searing pain, blinding him to everything else. It felt as if the blood in his veins was boiling, burning him from the inside out. He screamed and collapsed to the ground, clutching at a wound in his chest._

_\------_

_He didn’t remember getting home, only regaining some sense of himself as he walked through the door. He was vaguely aware of blood coming through a large bandage wound around his chest and shoulder but he felt warm, cozy, almost drugged. He couldn’t access his mind palace, but for some reason, couldn’t be as worried about it as he thought he should be. The fuzzy feeling persisted as he climbed the stairs, fire pulsing in his veins, his body weary, but a manic energy working him into a frenzy._

_His brow furrowed as he entered the flat, and something unseen hit him in the shoulder. He dimly registered a gunshot and then nothing but the roar of blood in his ears and his vision faded to darkness._

_\------_

_“Sherlock I know you know more than you are telling me!” Mycroft’s voice had lost its shiny veneer of calm that it always exhibited. Sherlock smiled dully, his head pounding and limbs weak._

_“I’ve told you Mycroft. I came to and there was blood everywhere. I don’t know anything else.”_

_“If you refuse to give more details, I’ll be forced to lock you up Sherlock. Not even I can circumvent this. I can’t, I can’t.” His voice broke and for the first time in years, he cried. Sherlock looked up at him, a dimness in his eyes and Mycroft realized that his younger brother would not remember any of the conversation they were having when he truly came around._

_“Please Sherlock, please. Anything. ANYTHING!”_

_Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, as if he was concentrating hard but whatever he needed kept slipping through his fingers. “Red lips, red nails. Black gun, black dress,” he muttered, and Mycroft’s eyes also narrowed as he wondered whether Sherlock was in shock and remembering the woman he was certain he’d killed, or if he was remembering what had actually happened when he walked in the door to 221B._

_Mycroft nor Sherlock would ever know though._

_The consulting detective succumbed to the darkness once more, only to awaken two days later to a whole new world._

\-----------------------------------------

Delving deep into his mind palace, Sherlock focused his thoughts on Moriarty, avoiding John’s question. He didn’t remember, and it frightened him. He pushed thoughts of both Irene and Molly away, glad to think of something other than the petite girl who was slowly taking over his mind palace and the woman who had never held more than a simple room there. He sat there for a long while, going over each and every encounter he’d had with the criminal genius, reviewing every detail of the meetings.

Suddenly, Sherlock leapt from his spot in the chair, terror etched on his face. He turned to John, who’d also gotten to his feet and grabbed his upper arms, shaking him emphatically.

“Wait John! Irene!”

John looked startled, his brows furrowing in confusion. “What about Irene, Sherlock, what is it?!”

Sherlock collapsed back down into his chair, his body rigid with shock.

“He is ‘is’,” Sherlock breathed. “Moriarty said ‘Irene _is_ ’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooo the plot thickens haha


	20. A New Player in the Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed so any mistakes are my own.

Molly breathed a sigh of relief as she donned her red coat, pulling it close around her. She’d acquitted herself brilliantly, performing the autopsy flawlessly. One of the professors had even complimented her stitch technique as they were exiting the room. On the whole, she was feeling good about it. She whistled a jaunty tune as she picked her purse and left the building, heading to the street to find a cab.

A black car pulled up to the curb and Molly shook her head, rolling her eyes before she opened the door. She climbed in and sat back, chuckling slightly. “Mr. Holmes is this really…” Molly looked up and her eyes widened. “Necessary,” she finished quietly, folding her hands in her lap, scraping at her chipped nail polish.

“Oh yes, Molly, I can call you Molly can’t I?” a feminine voice purred. “After all, no one said that the little wifey and the ex couldn’t be friends.”

\------------------------------

Sherlock snatched up his phone as it went off, yelling an abrupt “what?” into it after pressing call.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice was tense, though only his younger brother would be able to tell. “Molly was picked up from her exam by an unknown entity.”

“AN UNKNOWN ENTITY?!” Sherlock screeched, startling John awake from his position on the couch, where he’d ended up after Sherlock had gone into his mind palace after the startling revelation about Irene. He sat up, blinking owlishly as the detective continued screaming at his brother via the phone. “Who the bloody hell was it?”

“Sherlock, calm down,” John warned, and Sherlock glared at him, his free hand clenched into a fist.

“Unknown means exactly as it sounds. _I don’t know._ I doubt she knew either considering that the car the collected her was exactly like the one I would have sent.”

Sherlock’s blood ran cold and he paled considerably. “Just… like yours.”

“Yes Sherlock. I think you are finally on the same page as I am.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, though Mycroft couldn’t see him. “I am.”

“Good. I’ll be downstairs in five. Bring Doctor Watson.”

Sherlock hung up and darted across the room to snatch up his coat. John stood too, stretching his sore shoulder as he followed Sherlock down the stairs.

“Sherlock, Sherlock!” he yelled, grabbing the detective’s arm just before he made it out the door. “You need to calm yourself before you go out there. You’ve got to be in control.”

Sherlock nodded curtly. “I am. I’m in control. But John, I can feel him,” he said, lowering his voice. “I can feel it. We’re angry, and it’s hard.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s arm reassuringly. “I know, I know you’re angry. But you can do this. We’ll find her, and you’ll stay in control of yourself. We can do this.”

Sherlock nodded and made to open the door again. He stood in the entrance scanning the street for Mycroft’s car.

“Sherlock, is it...?” he asked, leaving his question unfinished, knowing his friend would know what he was trying to say.

Sherlock scowled at the street, a truly confused, almost bewildered look in his eyes. “Yes. The real question is why, and why now?” he said, shaking himself before stepping outside.

\------------------------------

“Well you are a pretty little thing, aren’t you? And smart too. No wonder our dear Sherlock is acting like a love-struck fool.” Molly silently stared at Irene, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, her jaw clenched defiantly.

“Oh dear, all business is it? Well I suppose that’s best. I don’t have much time for chitchat anyway.”

Irene smoothed the lines of her tailored white Alexander McQueen dress down, her red nails contrasting beautifully against the crisp material.

“I,” she paused as if searching for the right words and for the first time since she’d gotten into the car, Molly saw a moment of uncertainty flicker through the woman’s blue eyes. “I did not foresee this. My plan was to merely die, and move on, to never again cross paths with either of the Holmeses.”

Irene turned to look out the window.

“I would rather that he and his brother kept well away from my business but unfortunately, one of my partners has taken a particular interest in Sherlock. I kept you alive the first time he and Sherlock met face to face. I don’t know if I could manage it a second time. So Miss Hooper,” she rapped on the window between herself and the driver and he pulled to the curb. “Do keep Sherlock from doing anything… rash.”

The doors clicked, and Molly reached for the handle. Before she got out though, she looked over at Irene again. “Does it really matter to you what happens to Sherlock?” she asked, curiously.

The woman across from her nodded seriously. “I died to keep him safe. Moriarty is a demon Molly. He’s obsessed and he’ll kill Sherlock if he can. I knew what Mycroft would do faced with that situation and hoped that keeping Sherlock from leaving Baker Street would keep him out of Moriarty’s way. I should have known he wouldn’t stay put. We may not have loved each other, not really, but I do care a great deal for him, and I would see him safe if I could.”

Molly nodded, and climbed from the car, looking back and forth down the sidewalk as Irene pulled away.

\----------------------------------

Sherlock sprang out of the car and onto the sidewalk, wrapping his arms tightly around a very startled Molly.

“Oh my god, there you are!” he exclaimed. “We’ve been looking all over for you! The bastard blacked out the CCTV in half the city, I thought he was going underground with you!” He held her tightly against him, unminding of the gaping crowd, some of whom were chattering amongst themselves about the famous detective finally coming out of his home.

Molly returned his hug, holding him close and breathing in his scent. After a second she pulled back and murmured in his ear. “We need to get out of the street.”

Sherlock nodded and pulled her to the waiting car. They climbed in and Molly nodded to John and Mycroft.

“What did he want with you, Molly?” Sherlock asked after closing the door. The car pulled into traffic and Molly gulped.

“Sherlock, it uhm, it wasn’t Moriarty.” Sherlock and John both stared at her, uncomprehending, but Mycroft seemed to slump a bit in his seat, a deep frown creasing his face.

“If it wasn’t Moriarty then who was it?” John asked, confused.

Recognition dawned on Sherlock’s face and he gazed at Molly, dumbfounded. “Irene. You’ve met Irene.”

Molly nodded quietly as Sherlock too slumped back in his seat, a brooding look on his face. The rest of the ride was silent except for John’s unanswered requests for a “bloody explanation.”

Molly spend the ride thinking. Sherlock had told her that he loved her already and had admitted to not loving this woman, of merely being infatuated with her. Irene had confessed the same. But Molly’s fear was that his infatuation with her had not diminished over the years. She knew that he loved a puzzle, and how this woman had been able to trick both Holmes brothers into thinking Sherlock had killed her was certainly one hell of a puzzle. Molly felt distinctly small compared to the stunning woman she’d just met, and as she watched Sherlock, she wondered if perhaps he would leap at the chance to return to Irene if such an opportunity presented itself.

\------------------------------

Sherlock also spent the ride thinking. He wondered what Irene had told Molly about him. Wondered if she’d tried to turn the small girl beside him away from him. It didn’t seem like it from the way she’d hugged him on the street, but there was something that she wasn’t telling him, and he was terrified that she would turn away from him. The animal inside him raged, demanding that he make his mark on her, the terror of thinking he’d lost her running rampant in his mind palace, tearing down all defenses he’d created against it. As he watched her, Sherlock knew that his control was dwindling and taking her as his own was all but inevitable.


	21. Decision Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. Unbetaed.

Molly sighed and glanced at the door.

The moment they’d pulled up in front of Baker Street, Sherlock had bounded out of the car, opening the door for herself and John, then jumped back in the vehicle. John had yelled at him, but the look Sherlock gave them both through the window made the doctor subside into silence. They’d watched until the car disappeared around the corner and John had turned to her with a forced smile.

“Well, let’s see if Mrs. Hudson has any biscuits for us, hmm?”

\---------------------------

“You didn’t know. Tell me that you didn’t know.”

“I didn’t know.”

Sherlock slumped back in his seat, a weight taken off of his chest. He made a show of not caring for Mycroft, but in the end, family was important to each of the brothers and they would defend each other at all costs. When Mycroft had caught on that Molly had seen Irene faster than Sherlock, the younger Holmes had worried that his brother had known all along. If he had known it would mean that he’d locked Sherlock away knowing that he hadn’t committed the crime of which he was accused.

Sherlock was relieved, to say the least.

“What do you think she wants with Molly?” Sherlock frowned pensively.

“I have no idea brother. Unless it is to deliver a message from Moriarty.”

Sherlock jumped, as if startled, and glared incredulously at Mycroft.

“Surely she’s not working with him!” he barked. “Irene wouldn’t, she couldn’t…”

“She’s alive,” Mycroft quietly reminded Sherlock. “She’s alive and well and left you to your imprisonment when she could have cleared your name. She planned it. There’s no way that particular series of events could have happened without careful preparation on SOMEONE’S part and considering she is the liar here, I’d say it was her. With some help obviously. And there’s the matter of her knowing you’d come back to the flat at that particular time infected with this… illness. So of course, it was all set up from the beginning.”

Sherlock stared dumbfounded at Mycroft, his mental world crashing down. It had all been planned from the beginning. Nothing was coincidence, and Sherlock knew deep down that Irene being alive was the thread that unraveled his entire life for the last few years.

“So you think…” he began, but was cut off by Mycroft.

“Yes. Moriarty is the only one with those kinds of resources. Your woman sold you out to the enemy.”

Sherlock growled, surprising Mycroft. “Not my woman. Molly is mine.”

Mycroft sighed. “Then I suggest you make it so, and quickly, little brother.”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to be surprised. “You DO know what you are saying, right? You are telling me to give in to sentiment and to mark her as my lifemate?”

Mycroft sighed heavily, then nodded.

“You’re no longer able to resist and keep your sanity intact while doing so. Believe it or not, your head will be clearer if you are assured that she belongs to you.”

“She’s not a possession Mycroft,” Sherlock mumbled.

“No, of course not. But she belongs to you, just as you belong to her. There’s no changing that. But the… wolf, within you. It will rest easier if it is assured of this fact.”

Sherlock nodded as the car pulled back up in front of Baker Street, right on cue. He reached for the door handle, then turned back.

“Yes, I’ll do everything in my power to find out what their plan is.” Mycroft spoke before Sherlock had the chance. “And you will have the next,” he consulted his watch, “twenty-four hours undisturbed. I suggest you act on your urges because you won’t have another opportunity if things go south as fast as I anticipate they will. Molly meeting Irene is the first domino to fall in this intricate plot, and it will cause a ripple effect. Brace yourself Sherlock, the end is coming.”

Sherlock and Mycroft sat staring at each other for a long moment before Sherlock climbed out of the car. He heard laughter as he opened the main door, and smiled warmly as he caught Molly’s giggle. He paused, thinking over his conversation with Mycroft, then drew in a deep breath, striding to the door to the main flat.

“Ah, there you all are,” he said, unnecessarily. John stood. “John, don’t you think it’s time for you to get back to Mary? And Mrs. Hudson, it’s been a while since you visited your niece, hasn’t it?”

Both John and Martha stared at him before paling as they simultaneously realized why he was shooing them away. They were both out the door within ten minutes, with John carrying Mrs. Hudson’s hastily packed suitcase. Sherlock had gone upstairs immediately, but Molly had stayed to help their landlady pack.

\-------------------------

Molly climbed the stairs slowly. She wasn’t sure why Sherlock had not so subtly hinted for her companions to leave or why they hadn’t argued against it, but she had a feeling that her unexpected meeting earlier had spurred Sherlock into some kind of action.

She stepped into the sitting room and found Sherlock in his mind palace, sitting frozen in his chair.

“That wasn’t very nice,” she murmured, and stood looking at him, brow furrowed. She wanted to be near him, to feel his warmth close to her but he was in his chair. She contemplated climbing in his lap for a moment, but dismissed the idea with a giggle.

_He probably wouldn’t know what to do with that… Or maybe he would._

Her breath hitched and she shivered at the sudden wave of arousal. She took a deep, calming breath and decided to seat herself on the floor next to his feet. She could easily lay on the couch or take the other chair but somehow just being in the same room with him wasn’t enough. She wanted to _feel_ him.

\----------------------------

The world slowly came back into focus and Sherlock became aware of a warmth leaned against one of his legs. He glanced down and smiled at the sight that greeted him. Molly was seated on the floor next to his chair, her back braced against his legs. She was engrossed in a book, unaware that he was watching her. She chewed her lip as she concentrated, and Sherlock shifted slightly.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, blushing as she snapped the book shut. “I’m sorry I don’t know why…” She scrambled to stand. “I just, uhm, well I wanted to be near you, for some reason.”

Sherlock examined her curiously. He’d felt the same on more than one occasion, but he’d so far resisted the urge to hold her. Now though, in light of his brother’s advice and his own feelings for the petite woman, Sherlock consciously made the decision to give in. He wordlessly held his arms open and Molly barely hesitated before climbing into his lap and curling into a ball. He stroked her hair softly and thought about what he was going to say.

“Molly,” he began, his voice soft. “Something is going to happen, soon. I don’t know what or when but Mycroft is certain that it will come quickly. You meeting Irene is not something we can take lightly. Whatever she may be, Irene is not a fool. She would not expose herself without a good reason, especially knowing that Mycroft and I would undoubtedly pursue her.”

He fell silent again, thinking.

“But whatever her reasoning, we’re now aware that things are in motion. I need to be able to think, to solve this. But I can’t. All I can think about is you.”

Molly looked up at him, and Sherlock became uncomfortably conscious of how others felt when he deduced them. Her eyes narrowed and she examined him closely.

“Molly, I…” he trailed off, looking down at her.

“Sherlock.” Molly shifted to straddle him in the chair. Her eyes were wide and her lips parted. He was sure that he looked similar as he struggled to keep his breathing steady. “Don’t you think that it’s time?”

They stared at each other a long moment before Sherlock slowly nodded, a grin spreading across his face. She understood. His beautiful mate, she understood him. Any doubt that lingered was washed away and he wrapped his arms around her waist, smiling up at her.

“Yes, it’s time,” he agreed.


	22. Fufilled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys... *waves* Ummm so I didn't fall off the face of the Earth. I've been having a lot of stuff going on in my life lately and haven't had any time to write really. So sorry about that. Have some smut as a peace offering.

Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath as he closed the bedroom door behind himself. Molly stood next to the bed, chewing her lip, a small smile threatening to break out on her face.

_She’s yours. Finally._

With two steps, Sherlock had her in his arms, his lips pressed to hers frantically. Molly was just as desperate it seemed as she practically ripped his shirt out of his trousers and began hurriedly undoing the buttons. Sherlock growled as she lost her patience and pulled it open, causing buttons to fly in every direction. He quickly undid the cuffs as she busied herself with his trouser fastenings.

His brain stuttered to a halt and his eyes closed as Molly’s tiny hand wrapped delicately around his hard prick. She stroked him a few times, pushing his trousers farther down with her other hand. He opened his eyes, full of lust, and growled down at her. Within seconds, he had her flat on her back in the bed, and was tearing her clothes from her.

_Don’t hurt her, don’t hurt her._

Molly’s moans and gasps made it easy to tell just how turned on she was by the force he exhibited. When she was completely naked, Sherlock raised back up to push his trousers completely off, along with his shoes and socks. He quickly covered her body again, licking and nipping at her skin, the urge to mark her almost overwhelming. She was panting beneath him, her legs wrapped around his waist as she ground her core against his cock. He freed himself from her grip and grinned wickedly at her disappointed moan before sliding down her body to spread her legs. Another grin and he leaned down, slipping a finger inside her at the same time he latched onto her clit, sucking gently.

Molly’s back arched off the bed as she let out a moan, her nails scrabbling for purchase against the smooth sheets. She lifted her hips into his mouth, her hands moving to his hair, burying deep into his curls and pulling roughly. A low growl escaped him and he turned his head to bite down on her inner thigh. 

“Molly,” he rasped, nipping at the tender flesh.

“Sherlock, please,” she whined, writhing underneath him. “Please just fuck me. I need it, I need you, please.”

_Look at her. She wants this as much as we do._

“Molly, Molly, I’m going to bite you at some point. It’s part of the bonding and it will hurt, okay? It won’t turn you into… what I am, that takes....” He growled again softly as Molly scratched her nails across his shoulders. “I need you to tell me that is what you want.”

“Yes, Sherlock, yes please. I want you so bad, please…” Molly’s breaths were rapid and her eyes dilated to the point of being almost entirely black.

“Still, ungh, still on the pill, yes?”

Molly nodded frantically and Sherlock moved up her body, stopping to suck on each of her nipples in turn, teasing them into hard nubs. She pulled him farther up, their mouths meeting in a sloppy, desperate kiss. Sherlock gasped as Molly reached down and grasped his cock, pressing the head against her pussy. His hips bucked and he pushed partway into her, making them both moan. Sherlock pulled all the way back out and took a deep breath before thrusting into her again.

“Oh God,” Molly moaned. “Fuck, Sherlock.”

Sherlock grinned at her language, pressing a kiss to her collarbone as he began a slow rhythm, thrusting deeply inside her then pulling almost all the way back out. Molly’s ankle pressed against his lower back, trying to keep him inside her.

“Stop teasing me…” she whined, pupils blown black, hardly a sliver of the brown iris around them. 

Sherlock growled, abruptly changing to a hard, fast pace, making Molly yelp and cling to him. He fought to keep control, worried that he would lose it in her body. Knowing that he wasn’t the monster he previously thought he was did little to abate his concerns. He could feel the wolf beginning to take hold of him though as he fucked Molly even harder, the headboard of the bed banging against the wall. Molly had her hands above her head, pressed against the headboard, bracing herself against his brutal thrusts.

Molly’s breaths were coming fast and she had stopped babbling and was moaning, a high pitched whine. A few more thrusts and her entire body went rigid, then she was clinging to Sherlock, begging him to fuck her, harder, faster.

Sherlock felt her tighten around him and his mind went completely blank.

_Now._

As he reached his own peak, he bit down hard on the side of Molly’s neck, causing her to scream and, incredibly, orgasm again. He worked her flesh between his teeth, heedless of when her moans of pleasure became whines of pain. Finally, the animal inside him was satisfied, and Sherlock’s head cleared.

Molly was whimpering softly, her hand going immediately to her neck to hold the spot. Sherlock stared down at her in disbelief, before jumping up and running to the bathroom to grab disinfectant and cotton balls, hurrying back to Molly’s side.

He quickly cleaned the area, apologizing over and over until Molly sat up and kissed him, wincing a bit as she turned her head. He hugged her to him and they sat still, both contemplating what had occurred.

“I knew what I was getting into,” she said finally. “And even though it hurts, I don’t regret it.”

Somehow, Sherlock felt the truth in her words and he hugged her close to him. After a moment, his brow furrowed and he sniffed. He looked down at Molly incredulously.

“Your scent is changing. You smell more like me now.”

Molly sniffed too, but shook her head. “I can’t tell.”

“I can,” he replied, taking a deep breath, a contented smile on his face. “We’re bonded, Molly.”


	23. Strategy (Part One)

Molly awoke to the smell of bacon.

She lay for a while, dreamily remembering the previous night and wondering how soon she and Sherlock could, ahem, take care of business again. Finally, she dragged herself out of bed, wrapping the sheet around her, and stumbled sleepily into the kitchen where she found Sherlock busily preparing a feast big enough for ten people.

He stopped when he saw her and took a deep breath through the nose, smiling contentedly.

“You smell like me,” he said. “It’s fantastic.”

Molly sniffed her hair. “I don’t smell the difference,” she said, puzzled.

“It’s probably too subtle for humans,” he replied, going back to his cooking. “My senses are heightened.”

Molly nodded. “That makes sense,” she said.

“Here, can you grab this plate,” Sherlock asked, pointing to it with his chin. “Just set it down there.” He emptied a bunch of scrambled eggs into the plate and put it in the microwave to keep it warm.

“That’s way too much food for us,” Molly observed, her mouth watering because of all the delicious smells.

“Mrs. Hudson is bringing up the baked goods. I don’t have the patience for those,” he said. “But yes, this is too much for us alone. Good thing we won’t be alone.” He stopped and glanced at her. “I suggest you put some clothes on.” He swallowed hard and looked down, a light blush coloring his face and ears. “And we should probably bandage that bite mark.”

“Who is coming?” Molly asked, pulling her sheet tighter around herself and looking towards the sitting room.

“John and his wife, Mary, Mycroft, Lestrade, and Wiggins” He smiled at her before turning back to the stove. “Anyway, I think you should get dressed now. They’ll be here soon.”

Molly nodded even though his back was turned, and shuffled off towards her upstairs bedroom to find clothes.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Twenty minutes later, Molly heard voices downstairs. She smoothed her ponytail and headed down just as John and his wife were coming up.

“Molly, hi!” John said, putting his arm around his wife. “This is my wife, Mary. Mary, this is Molly Hooper, the woman who captured the heart of Sherlock Holmes,” he said, clutching his chest melodramatically.

“If we’re done being ridiculous for the time being, there’s breakfast in here,” Sherlock called from the kitchen.

Molly and Mary giggled, exchanging looks, while John merely sighed.

Mary was young and blonde, with short cut hair. She wore all black, and had piercing blue eyes that twinkled with merriment. Molly decided immediately that they would be good friends.

The three all trooped into the kitchen, and Sherlock immediately handed each of them a plate.

“Get what you want and go find a spot in the sitting room,” he ordered. They did as instructed with Molly and Mary settling on the couch and John sitting in his old chair.

Lestrade came in a moment later, followed closely by Mycroft. Both men got some food and joined the crowd in the sitting room. Last came Bill Wiggins, dragging his feet up the stairs. He looked dead tired, but shook off Molly’s concerned look with a cheeky grin.

“Good God, Molly!” Greg said when he came over to greet Molly and Mary. “What happened to your neck?!”

Molly clapped a hand over her wound, wincing, as John and Mary exchanged a look.

“Come on, Molly,” John said, getting up. “Let’s get that bandaged.” Molly excused herself and followed John as Lestrade ranted to Sherlock in the sitting room.

“He’s just concerned,” John said, dabbing the wound with antiseptic, as Molly sat on Sherlock’s bed. “He’ll come around to the idea of you two.”

“Why is he so worried?” Molly asked.

“He was the one to investigate Irene’s “murder,” John replied quietly. “It tore him up thinking that Sherlock could do something like that. He only just recently reconciled with it and now you’re here and he’s afraid of having to investigate his friend again for another crime. I don’t think he could do it twice,” John said.

He finished putting a plaster over Molly’s wound, and they returned to the sitting room, where it was eerily quiet, with only the sounds of Wiggins munching to break the silence.

“All right,” Sherlock said, after everyone had put their plates in the kitchen. (Wiggins ate twice but no one mentioned it.) “We’re here to plan a strategy to defend against Moriarty’s attack. We know he’s coming, and we know he’ll target those close to me. That’s all of you and Mrs. Hudson downstairs.”

John pursed his lips in thought. “Do we know what he’s planning? Or have some idea of what he’s up to?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Unless there’s information I don’t have,” he shot a look at Mycroft who shook his head, “then no, we don’t know.”

“So basically, we’re sitting ducks,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock nodded. “We just need to make sure that we’re protected as well as possible. No one goes anywhere alone. Ever. That includes you, Billy,” he added, glancing at the boy. “Take Klaus or Chip with you wherever you go.”

Billy nodded and Sherlock continued.

“Mary and John will be staying here for the time being. John will be helping me with my work, and Mary will be guarding Molly as she goes to and from work.”

Molly tried to chime in but Mary put a hand on her knee and shook her head. Molly swallowed, and nodded at the other woman.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Now there is the matter of-”

Suddenly, they heard Mrs. Hudson shriek from downstairs. Everyone (with the exception of Mycroft) was on their feet in a flash, with Sherlock leading John and Lestrade down the stairs. Molly watched as Wiggins disappeared into the coat closet and admired the boy’s quick thinking. Next to her, Molly heard a click, then Mary was standing in front of her, gun at the ready, pointed towards the stairs.

It had gone very quiet, and Molly was terrified that something had happened to Sherlock and the other two men. Mycroft got up and slowly made his way over to the stairs. He looked down and motioned for the others to come see. Mary went first, still holding her gun, and Molly followed along behind her.

When they got to the stairs, Molly let out a quiet gasp.

There, lying on the floor in the midst of the three men, was Irene Adler.


	24. Strategy (Part Two): Irene

Before she even thought, Molly was pushing past Mary and rushing down the stairs to knock John aside and kneel next to Irene’s motionless body. She quickly snatched up the still woman’s hand and placed her fingers to the wrist, feeling for a pulse. Molly sighed in relief when she felt the weak but steady beat of the other woman’s heart.

“What happened?” she asked, looking up at Sherlock who was as white as a ghost, his lower lip quivering as he held onto his composure with every ounce of his self-control.

Lestrade answered for him.

“Apparently, Ms. Hudson opened the door and Irene fell in. They must have propped her up against it. We dragged her the rest of the way inside. That’s about it.”

“She doesn’t appear to have any injuries,” John piped up. “They must have drugged her. We could take a blood sample when she comes to and see, couldn’t we?” He looked to Sherlock who slowly shook himself and returned his friend’s gaze blankly.

“What?”

Molly frowned. Sherlock was behaving strangely, even for a man who was seeing his supposedly dead ex-lover for the first time in years. She stood and took his hand in both of hers, jerking his arm slightly to her him to look at her.

“Hey, you okay?” she asked, concerned.

Sherlock scowled down at her. “No, I’m not okay. What kind of a question is that? Moriarty drugged the hell out of my former paramour and dropped her on my doorstep. Which means that he knows she met with you and probably why she did. So he did exactly what anyone else would have done and got rid of the mole in his organization. Why he didn’t just kill her is beyond me but he decided to ditch her here, probably just to screw with me. And now, I’ve got one more person to worry about keeping safe when Moriarty does whatever it is he’s going to do. What makes you think I’m okay with this?”

By the time he was finished, Sherlock was inches from Molly’s face, shouting. There was a moment of dead silence, then Molly felt herself being pulled backwards by the arm. Lestrade gave her a pointed look as he dragged her away from Sherlock, who growled at the other man until he let go of Molly’s arm.

Mary appeared at the bottom of the stairs, along with Billy, and cleared her throat, caused all eyes to look her direction.

“If we’re finished being piss babies about this, can we get her up the stairs and into a bed. Or on the sofa at the very least? That floor can’t be comfortable.”

John smiled at his wife and nodded.

“Greg?”

The DI eyed Sherlock warily before stooping to lift Irene’s feet as Mary and John each took an arm. Working together, they slowly carried her up the stairs with Billy following closely behind, leaving Molly and Sherlock alone in the stairwell.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock muttered, shifting his feet. “But I’m really not okay.”

Molly nodded, not looking at him.

“Understood.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to say more, but Molly turned and headed up the stairs, leaving him to look after her helplessly.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“That’s all I remember.”

Irene sat on the couch next to Molly, wrapped in several blankets. Her teeth were chattering as she told her meager story.

She’d gone home from handling a client (what kind, Molly didn’t know, but Sherlock and the others certainly seemed to) and met Moriarty and his second in command, a man named Moran, coming in the door. They’d smiled at her, which she’d thought was a bit odd, and continued walking. As Moran passed her, she’d felt a sharp prick in her upper arm, and went cold almost immediately. As her vision blurred, she’d heard Moriarty laugh and say, ‘Tell Sherlock he’ll not get this one up on me.’ The next thing she knew, she was waking up on the couch with concerned faces around her.

She and Sherlock were in the midst of a staring contest that, frankly, was making Molly a bit uncomfortable. Finally, Irene shook her head at him, and broke the gaze.

“I don’t know what he’s planning,” she stated clearly, obviously for the benefit of everyone besides Sherlock and possibly Mycroft, who sat the in far corner observing the proceedings with an air of superiority. Molly wondered if he’d ever liked Irene, since he seemed unconcerned with her well-being. “I wish I did,” she continued, pausing when Mycroft scoffed. “My neck is on the line here too,” she reminded him, in a biting tone. “If Sherlock goes down, it’s only a matter of time before James decides to eliminate me. I know too much.”

“What do you mean?” Molly asked, curiously.

Irene smiled tiredly at her. “I’ve been part of his operations for years now. He’s got his fingers in a lot of unsavory pies and I know the details of quite a few of his shadier dealings.”

“Why did you do it?” Sherlock asked abruptly, making Molly jump.

Irene sighed. “You and I, Sherlock, we’re not good people. Neither of us are bad per say, but we certainly aren’t good. But we’re different. You’re on the side of the angels, even though you aren’t one of them. Angels bore me. Never could stomach them for long.” She looked around the room, her gaze finally settling on Molly. “Here’s an angel. And see, you love her. She’s good. Pure. Sweet. I’m not. I met James and he offered me excitement and the chance to start over, ply my trade again, leave all this behind and become someone new. I thought it was a good deal, so I took it.” She looked down to her hands, clasped in her lap. “I arranged for it to happen the way it did because the more I was around him, the more I realized that he was utterly obsessed with you. I didn’t want to see you harmed, even I wanted to leave. I don’t have a heart of stone, Sherlock,” she said, with a wry smile. “Even I don’t like it when someone who doesn’t deserve it gets hurt.”

Sherlock nodded curtly and slouched back in his chair.

“So, what now?” John said, tightly clutching his wife’s hand as they sat side by side.

“Now, we wait,” Sherlock replied. He stood and stepped over to the sofa, reaching down to take Molly’s hand and pull her up. “I think now would be a good time to get some rest. He won’t do anything right now. He’s letting the suspense build.”

“I’m going back to my office,” Mycroft said, standing. “The rest of you will be staying here, no?”

Everyone in the room, with the exception of Billy and Greg nodded.

“Billy and Lestrade will be going back home,” Sherlock said, and Mycroft smiled drily.

“Of course. Now, if you will excuse me.”

He disappeared down the stairs with Billy on his heels. John and Mary stood as well, and headed upstairs to the spare bedroom.

“Sorry we don’t have another bed,” Molly said to Irene.

“Oh honey, it’s fine,” the other woman replied. “You’d be surprised at some of the places I’ve slept.”

 **  
** “Very surprised,” Sherlock muttered, and Irene shot him a dark look. “Come on,” he said, pulling on Molly’s arm. She allowed him to lead her towards the bedroom, her thoughts on the mysterious woman on the sofa.


	25. The Calm Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEYYYYYYYYYY I'M BACKKKKKKK!
> 
> Unedited, unbetaed, here, have my thing!

“Red nails, red lips. Black gun, black dress.”

Mycroft sat directly in front of Irene, his usual air of indifference replaced with a scowl only he could conjure up. He leaned forward menacingly.

“So here we are. Just you and me. The Woman and the Iceman. Who do you think will win this little war we’ve begun?”

Irene examined her nails, unfazed by the bright light shining in her face or the hostile man before her.

“I really must get Kate to redo my nails,” she murmured, before sighing and lowering her hand. She lounged in her chair, a seemingly impossible feat given that it was a stark metal silhouette of one. “Your ‘war,’ as you call it, is not with me, Mycroft. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m just a player in the game. The great game that Sherlock and James are playing with each other. And as much as you hate to admit it, you know that my actions were for the good of Sherlock, however mistaken you think they were.”

“You could have come to me with this matter and I could have…”

“You could have what, Mycroft? You could have prevented this?” she chuckled mirthlessly. “Don’t be so naive. You and I both know that you were watching James long before now. I even know that you detained him at one point and couldn’t get a thing out of him without telling him Sherlock’s life story.”

Mycroft looked away sharply.

“Oh yes,” Irene leaned forward, a cruel smile dancing across her lips. “How does the villain know so much about our hero? His big brother, the one who was supposed to protect him, spilled the beans on his whole life.”

“That is enough!” Mycroft slammed his hands down on the sides of his chair loudly and stood, his presence filling the basement flat of 221C where his minions had set up a temporary office/interrogation room. “Irene,” he growled, “God help you if you betray him again.” He turned and walked quickly from the room, the dark beyond the glow from the single light swallowing him as he left.

Irene blew out a long breath of air and stood. She looked at the door across from her and shook her head, whispering to herself, “God help me if I chose the losing side.”

\---------------------------------

Molly gingerly sat down on the couch next to Irene. 

“You don’t have to look so frightened, honey,” the Woman cooed. “Oh the things I could do to you,” she said, wistfully. “You’re a natural born sub. I would have you on your knees.”

Molly frowned. “A sub? You mean a submissive? Like in… sex?” She whispered the last word.

“Of course, darling. Haven’t they told you?” Irene’s smirk dimmed as Molly shook her head. “They haven’t.” She cleared her throat. “Well, I suppose someone will sooner or later and it might as well be me.” She glanced down at her hands, unwilling or unable to meet Molly’s soft brown gaze. “My clients… I offer a service that many see as a shameful thing. I am a professional dominatrix.” She paused to let her words sink in, expecting to see revulsion or at least distaste on Molly’s face. She found none in the other girl’s expression, only a curiosity.

“So that’s what they meant by ‘plying your trade’ again,” Molly said.

Irene nodded. “Yes, it’s the one thing I’m really very good at.” Molly began to speak but Irene continued. “Oh I know, there are other things that I do well, but this, this is my forte, dear. This is what sets me apart from the rest of the sheep in this world.”

Molly bit her lip, obviously wanting to ask a question.

“Sherlock? Oh yes, dearie, I am always the top.” Irene smiled. “I had Sherlock under my heel.” She paused and thought to herself for a moment. “That’s not where he belongs though. He’s not that type of man and I knew it even then. I’m not here to steal Sherlock away.” The tight smile left her face and she sighed. “Between you, me, and the sofa, darling, I wouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole. Especially now that, you know.” She motioned to Molly’s still bandaged neck.

Molly touched said area and winced slightly.

“May I see?” the woman next to her asked, almost timidly.

Molly turned to examine Irene for a moment before reaching up to unwrap the gauze. 

“Here,” Irene said. “Let me help.” She tenderly released the bandages, making sure to not pull too roughly. She let out a sharp gasp when the bite mark came into view and one hand flew to her mouth. “Oh honey,” she breathed, “did it hurt badly?” 

Molly swallowed, thickly, hazy memories of the pain drifting through her mind. “Yes,” she replied, in a soft voice. “But I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

It was Irene’s turn to examine Molly then. “You are a good woman,” she said. “Sherlock doesn’t deserve someone like you. He’s a very lucky man.”

Molly smiled warmly at her. “Thank you,” she said, blushing.

“Not to mention you’re simply adorable when you do that,” Irene purred. “Come on,” she said, getting to her feet. “Let’s get another bandage put on there before Sherlock murders me for convincing you to unwrap it.”

Molly giggled and followed the woman towards the bathroom as Irene began describing one of her more gruesome tales about how a client liked to be beaten and how the bruises would form. She hoped that it marked the beginning of a mutual regard, if not a possible friendship with the dominatrix.

\-----------------------------------

Red nails.

Red lips.

Black gun.

Black dress.

Red nails.

Red lips

Black…

“Sherlock!”

He jolted awake with a snarl, the fog of sleep making him blink against the bright light of the bedroom. He painfully relaxed his death grip on the sheets and smiled sheepishly at Molly, the frantic beating of his heart slowing at the mere scent of her.

“Was I loud?” he asked quietly.

Molly nodded and reached out to rub his bare back softly.

“You’ve got to be careful,” he warned her. “I’ve transformed in my sleep before because of a nightmare. I wouldn’t want… I couldn’t have anything happen to you.” He grasped her hand, turning it over in his much larger one to kiss her open palm.

Molly sighed, tugging futilely in an attempt to pull her hand away from his. He tightened his grip, but made sure that it wasn’t so vice-like that it would hurt her.

“Molly, I truly am sorry for how I acted earlier.”

She nodded again, silent, and Sherlock let go of her hand, frowning as she snatched it back to herself.

“Everyone is in the kitchen,” she murmured, standing. “We heard you groaning like you were in pain so I came to see what was wrong.”

Sherlock blinked at her. “What time is it?” he asked, wondering how long he’d slept.

“It’s nearly 10:30 in the morning,” Molly replied. “You’ve been asleep for almost 12 hours. We thought it best to let you sleep as long as you could.”

Sherlock nodded his thanks and rolled over to kick his feet off the edge of the bed. He stretched lazily and stood as well, catching a retreating Molly in his arms. He kissed her gently on the forehead. “I’m sorry, okay?”

She looked up at him for a long moment. “Sherlock,” she paused and bit her lip nervously. “I… It’s okay. It’s fine.”

“No it isn’t,” he replied quickly. “I’m not saying what I did was fine. I’m saying that I’m sorry that I did it.” 

She ventured a tiny smile. “Thank you for apologizing,” she said. “Get some clothes on and come outside. We’re all having a brunch. Ms. Hudson made scones with jam.”

\------------------------

“Is it time, sir?”

“Why yes, Sebby. I think it’s time to play.”


End file.
